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MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

LILIAN VAUX MacKinnon 




MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

BY 

LILIAN VAUX MacKINNON 

{ 


NEW xfir YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 








COPYRIGHT, 1921, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


c ' 

» • • 



¥ 

SEP 29 2\ 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©CI.A627297 





CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I A Contract Confirmed 9 

II When Men Are Merriest .... 22 

III Oft Expectation Fails 35 

IV Speak Fair 45 

V Deep-Search ’d Study 57 

VI The Honourable Stop 68 

VII Till It Be Morrow 80 

VIII Fortune’s Threatening Eye .... 88 

IX Better Acquaintance 98 

X Quarrel in a Straw 108 

XI The Trier of Spirits 118 

XII Sparks of Nature 129 

XIII Comfort and Light 140 

XIV The Narrow Gate 152 

XV Mingled Yarn 163 

XVI Who Sells Eternity? 174 

XVII Cheerly Seek Redress 181 

XVIII Virtue Is Beauty 189 

XIX Thrice Armed . 198 


v 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XX Mind’s Inward Service 210 

XXI Full of Briars 221 

XXII Exits and Entrances 234 

XXIII A Careless Trifle .... . . . 242 

XXIV Playing Holidays 258 

XXV Bad News Ill-Brought ..... 270 

XXVI Leave Her to Heaven ...... 276 

XXVII Evil Made Better . . . t . . . . 283 

XXVIII Enskied and Sainted ...... 294 

XXIX Therefore to Be Woo’d 297 


XXX The Voice of Harmony . . . . . 304 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 



MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 


CHAPTER I: A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 

“A contract of eternal bond of love 
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands.” 

— Twelfth Night, Act V, Sc. i. 

Kingston, on a clear June evening. The quiet of grass 
and trees on shadowy, winding streets. Sashes of soft 
colours along the western sky, the still waters of the great 
lake. The calm of twilight and the flush of summer, mak- 
ing the old Limestone City, that sweet city with its dream- 
ing spires, the haunt of peace. 

The haunt of love as well. June is lovers’ month. May 
belongs to housewives, October to harvesters, and Decem- 
ber to little children. There is not a month but claims its 
votaries. June’s very name recalls love’s throbbing tone 
of tenderness, love’s radiant eyes. The sunshine lends its 
ardour, the roses offer their sweetness, and all the months 
that went before step back in glad procession. 

For every marriage that is made in Heaven there is a 
bonny bride. And it needed not the eye of a fond lover 
to discern the winsomeness of Elizabeth Danvers on that 
spotless summer evening. Tall, fresh and clear-eyed, her 
height revealed her mind’s dimensions, her soul shone 
through her eyes. She had come out on the wide verandah 
of the doctor’s home, and stood poised on the topmost 
step ready to give glad welcome. Crossing the street from 
the park two ladies were approaching — mother and daugh- 
ter, at an easy guess. 


9 


10 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“But you never, never should have walked, Aunt 
Laura!” Her full voice floated across the street most 
musically, the while she smiled, a warm, challenging 
smile. 

A slight bow from her aunt, a wave of the hand from 
her cousin, and in another moment they were coming up 
the steps. 

Elizabeth welcomed her visitors with impulsive em- 
braces. Suffering herself to be clasped but for a moment, 
Mrs. Roderick Campbell withdrew from the soft arms, 
adjusting her hat which had gone awry. “And how is 
Elizabeth?” she asked with studied cheeriness. 

Did she need to ask you that, Elizabeth? Were you 
not telling her in that embrace so patently unwelcome? 
But, “Oh, so well and happy, Aunt Laura!” the assur- 
ance came quickly, with a corroborating smile. 

The keen glance, charged with amusement at the sim- 
plicity of her tastes, might have discomfited the bride-elect, 
had she not been turning toward her cousin. Pauline was 
looking curiously towards an open bay window, through 
which voices of two or three young men in pleasant chorus 
came sounding. 

“Shall we go in then?” Elizabeth was beginning when 
a rustle of silk behind her and a quick exclamation from 
her mother suddenly recalled her remissness. 

“Why, Laura! And Pauline! Come in! Come in! I’m 
so sorry you had to walk. And from the hotel! Owen 
was called out suddenly, but we were ordering a carriage. 
Are you fatigued?” ushering them in solicitously. “Now 
tell me, why would you persist in putting up at the hotel 
when I had room and to spare? And why would you 
keep my own brother Roderick from visiting me? He’s 
coming on the midnight? I’ve a good mind to steal him 
from you, Laura Campbell !” 

The tone might have sounded heated, but the glow in 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 


ii 


those dark eyes belied that idea. And how those eyes 
would have flashed had Mrs. Roderick Campbell spoken 
in truth, “If I stay at the hotel it puts me under no obli- 
gation to return your hospitality.” Instead she answered 
smoothly, “We have very comfortable rooms, my dear 
Ellen, and as for walking up, we enjoyed it. Your little 
park is so restful. There’s the promise of a fine day for 
you to-morrow, Elizabeth.” 

But Elizabeth, divining her cousin’s desires, was slip- 
ping her across the hall into the drawing-room. 

“The other young people,” Mrs. Danvers explained, 
smilingly, “why, I wonder where Miriam is. Elizabeth, 
does Miriam know that her mother is here? Where is 
she?” 

“Down in the garden with Sedley. Do you want me to 
call her, Aunt Laura? Sedley reads poetry to her. He 
sets her to learning long passages at a time. They take 
possession of the library at nights and recite to each 
other.” 

“Miriam will be glad of help for her literature exam- 
inations, I am sure,” Mrs. Roderick Campbell rejoined. 

Elizabeth’s laugh rippled out. “It’s rather like supple- 
mentary reading, I should say.” 

“You’ll simply have to leave Miriam with us, Laura. 
This few days’ visit isn’t enough.” Into Mrs. Owen Dan- 
vers’ voice had crept a plaintive note. “I’m losing my 
only girl, and you have two.” 

Her sister-in-law smiled enigmatically. “You’re get- 
ting another son, Ellen. Isn’t that the modern form of 
consolation? And a bookish sort like Sedley, too.” She 
turned suddenly to listen. “That is not his voice now, is 
it? Mr. Rutherford’s, I mean. It sounds familiar, 
though.” 

“And so it should be, my dear,” Mrs. Danvers re- 
joined, rising and leading the way across the hall. “It 


12 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

should be familiar, since it is your own nephew’s — Fyfe 
Boulding, you know. He is to have a little part in to- 
morrow’s ceremony, just a bit of distinction because of 
his connection.” Here, catching a curious expression flit- 
ting across the other woman’s face, she added, “Not that 
there is much distinction about the whole wedding — a 
very simple affair.” 

Had Mrs. Campbell generously corrected her with the 
words, “Except the bride,” a new bond would have joined 
the two. But Mrs. Campbell was too greatly concerned 
with the trappings. A moment later her busy eyes found 
Fyfe in the far corner of the drawing-room, deep in con- 
versation with Pauline. C* 

“Ah, don’t disturb them,” Mrs. Danyers said. “Come 
and see all the gifts that my dear girl’s friends have sent 
her.” They moved up the broad stairway. 

Much relieved, Pauline watched them go. With an air 
of tempting reserve she had begun her little fusilade of 
personalities. “You were singing as we came in, were 
you not? I saw you by the piano. You didn’t know you 
were being watched.” 

“Didn’t I? Why I saw you all the way across the 
park.” Fyfe was responsive, very, to feminine wiles. 

“The idea! Among all those trees!” 

“Trees? What trees? I never saw any trees.” 

This wordy skirmishing was delicious, and Pauline 
roused herself to meet the challenge. Nothing pleased 
her better than these “quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
nods and becks and wreathed smiles,” even if Fyfe were 
a cousin! 

They had reached a most interesting stage in repartee 
where lifted eyebrows, arch glances and tantalising 
silences played as important a part as mere words. 
Pauline, pink with exhilaration, was propounding the ab- 
struse query, “How do you know that I know?” while 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 13 

Fyfe bent his eyes darkly on her charms, when the glass 
door leading out to the verandah opened quickly and a 
girl slipped in, followed by a young man, his fingers be- 
tween the leaves of a Temple “Shakespeare.” 

Fyfe drew up his languid length while Pauline crim- 
soned with vexation. What did that child mean by break- 
ing into the conversation! 

“Well, Miriam, where were you mooning?” she ques- 
tioned, giving her young sister a perfunctory kiss. She 
bestowed the same favor upon Sedley but with much 
more effusion. Fyfe Boulding murmured that he wished 
he could find some long-lost relations. These near ones 
were too far. 

“We were down in the garden,” Miriam told her di- 
rectly. “Where’s Mother? Did Father come?” 

“What do you think of a girl that’s in love with Or- 
lando?” Sedley questioned, with his radiant smile. 

“My pride fell with my fortunes, 

I’ll ask him how he fares.” 

His laughter was infectious, so sincere was it, so fraught 
with pure merriment. 

Pauline was divided between annoyance at the prom- 
inence given to Miriam and admiration of Sedley. She 
glanced from one to the other uncertainly. 

“ ‘Verbum sap’ — Will you be my honey?” Fyfe Bould- 
ing drawled, at which Sedley laughed the more. 

Pauline adroitly slipped in front of the two men, shut- 
ting off all view of the young sister who stood flushed 
and perturbed at one side. 

“Quod jam erat finis — At last the preserves were all 
gone,” Sedley contributed. 

“How did you translate the other?” Pauline ques- 
tioned, tilting up her face provocatively. It was an oppor- 
tunity for Fyfe. 


14 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

‘‘Oh, that’s easy ! Verbum — the verb ‘to be’ ; will you 
be — sap — sweetness, sugar-plum, honey? Will you be my 
honey?” he emphasised. 

“Oh!” said Pauline, her long lashes sweeping her 
cheeks. 

Miriam slipped out and made her way upstairs to 
where her mother, with Mrs. Danvers and Elizabeth, was 
viewing the wedding gifts. 

“That’s a very expensive dish, Ellen.” Mrs. Campbell 
appraised it keenly, balancing a silver dish on the tips of 
her fingers. “My sister, Mrs. Boulding of Regina, has 
one very much the same pattern. You are arranging all 
the sterling silver together, are you not? Now I should 
advise putting this good dish in the centre. It will show 
to splendid advantage. And this little spoon — no” (exam- 
ining it closely) “it’s not solid — may I tuck it over some- 
where on the side table?” 

“Oh, Auntie, no! Please don’t touch that,” Elizabeth 
started forward. “It’s got my name on the handle, ‘Eliz- 
abeth,’ do you see? It was given me by an old lady whom 
I dearly love. The person who sent the other is a patient 
of father’s. That’s all I seem to know about her. She’s 
very wealthy but very weather-cocky. Won’t you leave 
the spoon where I put it?” 

“Why, certainly, Elizabeth. I do not wish to alter 
your arrangements. But if I were consulted I should 
group the presents according to value.” 

“Elizabeth arranges them according to personal bias,” 
her mother laughed. 

“Nevertheless, value counts,” Mrs. Campbell contended, 
“especially when one cannot replace silverware easily. 
You won’t find money elastic, my dear girl. A peda- 
gogue’s salary is not princely.” She smiled intently on 
her niece. 

Elizabeth smiled warmly in return. “I’m sure I’ll make 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 15 

a place for everything that people are good enough to 
give me, that is unless we go into two rooms.” 

A little laugh greeted this remark, as Miriam came in 
among them. “Two rooms wouldn’t hold Tom’s books,’’ 
she said. “Why, here you are, Mother f Did you have a 
nice trip up?” 

“Very pleasant, my child. And what have you been 
doing?” She looked curiously down on her younger 
daughter. 

Miriam answered, evasively, as she fingered one of 
the spoons, “Oh, just enjoying myself, lazily.” 

“Lazily ?” Elizabeth re-echoed, passing her arm around 
her young cousin. “Don’t tell stories like that. Aunt 
Laura, can’t she stay on after I go?” 

Miriam glanced at her mother, thinking of Pauline’s 
plans for the June ball. But Mrs. Campbell presumably 
had other plans in which the June ball did not figure, and 
she graciously concurred. “Miriam will have finished her 
studies, and be free as far as those are concerned. She 
will have to turn to other things.” 

“Examinations, to wit,” Miriam briefly interposed. “So 
thank you, Elizabeth, but I can’t enjoy myself just yet.” 

“You’re not in the social whirl yet, are you dear? You 
haven’t budded?” 

“No, Elizabeth, I haven’t brought Miriam out yet. In 
fact, I hardly think I shall do so this year. She is not 
very strong, you know.” 

“Pauline is made of sterner stuff, is she?” Mrs. Dan- 
vers questioned. “Miriam is only fit for passing examina- 
tions ?” 

“Well, I’m going to pass some more of them!” Miriam 
spoke with a note of decision which caught the attention 
of the rest. “Mother, I’m going to the University this 
fall.” 

Mrs. Campbell got over her amazement in silence. 


1 6 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

When she spoke, it was slowly. “I wouldn’t say ‘I’m go- 
ing to,’ Miriam. You would have to consult your father 
and me first. I’m not sure that he would consider that 
outlay. He complains of Pauline’s china-painting as it is. 
What was your idea in speaking of the University?” 

•'‘Blame Sedley for it,” Elizabeth said. “He talks 
Queen’s to her by the hour.” 

“Surely Sedley does not thank Queen’s for what suc- 
cess he has achieved.” Her aunt’s words were measured. 

Elizabeth flushed swiftly. The sting of the innuendo 
found her in a way no attack on herself would ever have 
accomplished. That Sedley’s success had not been marked 
was her constant disappointment. 

“Sedley isn’t responsible, Elizabeth. I’ve always wanted 
college.” 

Her mother caught up the word. “ ‘Wanted’ is a bet- 
ter way to express it, Miriam, certainly. Well, I’ll talk 
it over with your father. If your heart is set on it, I 
should like to give you a year.” 

A voice broke in from the doorway. Pauline had over- 
heard the last sentence. “A year won’t do, mother. It’s 
not a finish-off, like Miss Vogue’s. She’ll want four, any- 
way, and then two post-graduate. You don’t know what 
you’ll get yourself in for. College will spoil Miriam for 
anything sensible. You know that girl across the street 
from us. She took four years in ’Varsity and what’s she 
good for now? She’s dropped out of the fencing club 
and the burnt work class, and she even refused to do 
anything for the church bazaar !” 

The eyes of Miriam and Elizabeth shot an exchange. 
I’m no good at those things anyway, Pauline,” the 
younger sister retorted. “Mother, did you see the set of 
Dickens that Elizabeth got? Little beauties they are.” 
She fondled the slim, smooth volumes. 

“Very nice, indeed, Elizabeth. They will just tuck into 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 17 

some little shelves by the ingle-nook. If you could have 
a tiny cupboard made with leaded panes, quite low, with 
a broad shelf on top for holding ornaments, say this 
bronze vase, the effect would be very good.” 

“Have you read them all, Elizabeth?” Miriam had 
dropped in a white fluff on the floor, scanning the titles. 
“I like ‘Our Mutual Friend/ don’t you, and ‘Bleak House’ ? 
‘Bleak House’ has none of the hideous creatures that are 
in some of the others ; oh, except the ‘Spontaneous Com- 
bustion.’ ” 

The others were making their way downstairs where 
some one at the piano had struck up in tentative exuber- 
ance, 

“ ’Tis thy wedding morning, shining in the skies, 

’Tis thy wedding morning — Rise, sweet maid, arise!” 

“Wouldn’t you like to borrow a couple of them, Miri- 
am ?” Her cousin joined her on the floor. “Post them to 
me when you’re finished. Are you going to Cape Breton 
this summer?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Oh, I hope you’ll be able to. I wish we could spend 
our honeymoon there. I’d like to meet your black-eyed 
John Hielanman fishing knee-deep in Trout Brook.” 

Miriam laughed. “With a grasshopper for bait. I had 
forgotten I told you. He made quite a picture. But you 
couldn’t get a word from him. I tried for half an hour 
and all he would say was ‘Oh, yes’ and ‘Oh, I don’t 
know/ He gave me his whole string of fish, though, at 
the end.” 

There were voices down at the front door and a cer- 
tain laugh that sent Elizabeth’s colour leaping to her 
cheeks. Miriam, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, 
slipped her arms around the older girl. “You’re going to 


18 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

be the happiest! He’s just splendid. Oh, Elizabeth, I 
think you will have the dearest life together.” 

Elizabeth’s blue eyes shone deep and true. She looked 
down smilingly at her cousin. “So will you, Miriam, 
when your turn comes. But that must not be for ever 
so long, remember !” 

“Where’s Elizabeth?” some one called from below. 

“Elizabeth! Bridelet! You’re wanted.” Sedley came 
up the front stairs. “Here’s another parcel for you, and 
Tom is sitting in the library like patience on a monument. 
What’s the matter with sweet Coz? What was Elizabeth 
saying to you?” 

“Oh, we were just talking about marriage.” 

He laughed down at her. “A long way off for you, 
Miriam.” 

“Well, yes, it is, rather.” 

“I should hope so. Meantime what are you planning 
for this summer? You should stay on here and keep 
Mother company.” 

“Why, you’re forgetting my exams. ! And then I’m 
going to Aunt Hannah’s in Cape Breton.” 

“As atonement for the others while they sport else- 
where?” 

“Indeed it’s no atonement. I love it there. I can hardly 
wait when I think of those woods and mountains and 
lakes and the beautiful drives, and Aunt Hannah’s buns 
and bannock, and the cream and the trout — such delicious 
trout, Sedley.” 

“I haven’t been down since I was a youngster,” Sedley 
reflected. “So this is the end of the Shakespeare read- 
ing.” 

“Until October only. I’m coming to college.” 

“Are you? Did you speak to Aunt Laura? What did 
she say?” 

“She didn’t say no. Oh, yes, I’m coming.” 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 19 

Sedley’s face was radiant. “That’s worth half a life- 
time to me. Miriam, you must profit by all my mistakes. 
You’ll let me help you make your course better than mine 
was? I know you’ll take higher rank; oh, yes you will. 
But there are other things than the curriculum.” 

“I’ll come to you about every little thing, Sedley. How' 
fortunate that you and not Fyfe Boulding are living here. 
1 don’t need to see him at all if I don’t want to. I’ll just 
forget that he’s my cousin.” Her earnest, eager *ace 
changed suddenly. “There’s Mother calling !” 

Half an hour later the Campbells were making their 
way to the hotel through the leafy paths of the old Kings- 
ton Park in the warm hush of the June evening. Off to 
the west the sky showed faintly coloured. Far down on 
the left stretched the blue waters of Lake Ontario. Be- 
fore them the white limestone buildings of Queen’s Uni- 
versity rose majestically from their nest of foliage. 

“This evening air is grateful. The house was close, 
oppressive,” Mrs. Campbell averred, lifting her face to 
the breeze. “Why are you turning this way, Pauline?” 

“It’s much shorter,” Pauline contended, skilfully pilot- 
ing her mother to the side path down which came swing- 
ing two cadets from the Royal Military College, flipping 
their swagger sticks, their scarlet tunics vivid through 
the green. 

“I suppose Sedley goes to the June ball,” Pauline re- 
marked pensively, gazing after them. 

“To the R.M.C. ? Very probably. He dances.” 

“Oh, indeed I know that. I’ll never forget dancing 
with him at the Royal Muskoka. He looked so splendid 
that all the girls wanted an introduction, especially that 
Cora Hotchkiss. I never told her that he was my cousin, 
and you may be sure that I kept him out of her way.” 

“She’s rather pretty.” 

“Who ? Cora ? Oh, she’s pink and white. But did you 


20 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

ever see her in green ? Really she looked ghastly the other 
morning, hurrying along Metcalfe Street with such a tight 
dress — made scrimp, you know.” 

Her mother laughed lightly over the description. “Not 
on exhibition, that time,” she allowed. “One never knows 
what eyes are watching. However, I would not worry 
over Sedley. He’ll have scores of friends before settling 
down. I hope he will not spoil Miriam. She was looking 
quite excited, I thought.” 

Pauline agreed. “All the presents ; nothing remarkable 
about them; and she thinks Tom Rutherford a sort of 
Fairy Prince. Just a school teacher!” 

Mrs. Campbell reddened, biting her lip in vexation. “I 
wish you would moderate your voice, Pauline. Such a 
fact does not need to be shouted from the house-tops.” 

Did Mrs. Campbell forget, or did she choose to ignore 
the fact that four years as a country school teacher had 
given her husband his start in life? 

As for Tom Rutherford, he did not need their praise 
nor their blame either. He was in a Paradise of his own 
making; and if Mrs. Campbell and Pauline saw nothing 
of the beauty of the evening, at least the lovers saw it. 
It is through the medium of love that beauty is always 
recognised. Elizabeth, leaning her dark head against the 
white pillar of the verandah, let her eyes rest on the love- 
liness of that last night in her father’s home. 

“You’re not going so very far away,” Tom reminded 
her. 

“Not in distance,” she conceded, “but in actuality I’m 
leaving them altogether, and all my will to the contrary.” 

His fair boyish face flushed. “When I remember that 
it is for me, I feel very unworthy, Elizabeth.” 

She turned to him then, but the gathering darkness hid 
the beauty of her eyes. Music had crept into her tone. 

“It is for myself, as well,” she told him. “It is be- 


A CONTRACT CONFIRMED 21 

cause without you I could never be content, never be my- 
self ” 

Tom understood. It was for an understanding such as 
this that he had kept the soil of his life soft, his imagina- 
tion free, his sympathies tender; and for a love such as 
this that he had worked and waited, never doubting that 
from out the throng of cheerful acquaintances, one would 
emerge, single in the field. 

He had always kept a white throne in his heart for 
one woman. His solitary walks had been sanctified by a 
mystical companion, clear-souled, brooding over him with 
love, the mistress of his holiest dreams. One radiant day 
the presence was visualised and the fragrant charm of a 
beautiful woman touched his senses. The floodgates were 
opened now and the inrush of sympathy and comprehen- 
sion of all lovely things well-nigh engulfed him. 

Elizabeth was to be his. She would share his half- 
formed fancies, his wonderings, his whimsical humor, his 
faith. Had she not promised this one evening, tenderly 
serious, while the waves lapped beside them and the old 
Martello Tower stood a dark sentinel behind, and far 
ahead the grey secret of the lake stretched out in mystery, 
lit only by the stars ? 


CHAPTER II: WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 

“Tis ever common 

That men are merriest when away from home.” 

— Henry V, Act I, Sc. 2. 

It was cool under the bridge. The white sand had sifted 
up around the stone base, and in among the loose rocks 
and logs worn smooth by the wash of the waves. If you 
leaned over the stone supports and looked down into the 
clear green water you might surprise a fine trout darting 
into the shade of the bridge, away from the seductive 
fly, away from the aggressive city angler whose aim 
was its annexation, and who, panoplied in rubber suit 
’gainst any hint of damp, stood out waist deep in the 
brook. 

Two of these city fishermen were already at work that 
warm July morning. Their creels were empty, but hope 
was in their hearts. Apart from the thought of a good 
catch, there was exhilaration in the sport, and charm in 
the beauty of the still inland pools, backed by the straight 
little firs and the mountains beyond. 

Near the bridge there were other fishermen who had 
neither rubber suits nor creels nor patent fishing-rods. 
But they were standing in the water, too, as far as their 
trousers would permit, some of them indeed much farther. 

Over the bridge rattled and rumbled an occasional cart 
or carriage, their drivers exchanging a few monosyllables 
with Lauchy MacDonald, the storekeeper at the Brook, 
who lounged over the railing. 

“How’s the fish, Lauchy?” 

“Scarce enough. Some good catches though. That fel- 
low from the mountain has made a haul.” 


22 


2 3 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 

“He goes in deep.” 

“Well, I don't know as that matters. He's on to the 
trick of throwing the fly, someway. It's not a good day 
for biting — too warm." 

Under the bridge, though, it was cool ; cool and quiet 
and murmurous. And if you did not want to read you 
could watch the lake out beyond, where Trout Brook 
emptied, and trickle the sand through your fingers and 
snap the satin-smooth white twigs and day dream unmo- 
lested. There were no examinations and no one to trouble 
you ; all that the people at the house demanded of you was 
to “fatten up." 

Miriam luxuriated in it all. Why Pauline did not love 
to stay at Aunt Hannah’s passed her comprehension. 
How she could prefer the stereotyped summer resort with 
its constant endeavour after fresh gowns and fresh ac- 
quaintances, where every one lived in the limelight and 
talked about every one else, was a marvel. The thought 
of the board bills alone would haunt one, especially when 
one’s father endured the dizzying heat of Ottawa’s busi- 
ness streets to pay for it all. Here everything was bounti- 
ful. Big potato fields and pails of milk and jugs of cream, 
and fish for the catching. 

Over the bridge above her came the familiar joggety 
trot of the old brown mare carrying His Majesty’s mail 
to the white house on the hill. Miriam’s interest in the 
outside world suddenly quickened. For this was Tuesday, 
and Saturday morning, the last mail-day, seemed far in 
the past. There might be letters for her. 

She slipped around the bend, her white sneakers bridg- 
ing the boulders with ease. There was a general stir of 
interest. Some of the fishermen were hauling in their 
lines with the prospect of bigger catch in the shape of 
reading-material. Lauchy had left a lanky little neighbour 
lad in charge of the store and was even now trudging up 


24 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

the road. Miriam started in pursuit. At the same moment, 
from behind a clump of alder-bushes down below the 
bridge a young man stepped out swiftly and came running 
up the slope. She laughed to herself as she looked. Be- 
hold her “Jcrtm Hielanman” in person! 

He never saw her. There was only one thing in the 
landscape for him at that moment and he made for it, 
his long legs covering the distance up that hill in an un- 
thinkably short time. She followed more slowly, trailing 
her sunshade behind as she walked, in a little wavering 
line. 

Down below lay the lake, all a-shimmer in the sweet 
morning air. From up above the cow-bells sounded 
through the rocky pastures on the cradle-hills and into 
the pine woods. They were mowing down below the road 
on a precipitous bit of meadow from which none but 
Highlanders would expect returns. 

The sights and sounds of the fresh country morning 
folded her softly round like a solemn joy. She felt as 
though she could go on that way for miles and miles! 
Were there no one else in the universe and the trees and 
hills and lake remained, one could not be lonely. No, there 
was something worse than loneliness. Unwelcome com- 
panionship would you call it? But to be with those you 
loved in spots like these must indeed be heaven on earth 
or a honeymoon. 

“Never the time and the place 

And the loved one all together! 

This path — how soft to pace ! 

This May — what magic weather! 

Where is the loved one’s face?” 

The words went dreamily through her mind, as she 
reached the top of the hill. 

Yes, there were letters for her. She opened her 
mother’s first as she walked home again, and learned how 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 25 

Pauline had carried all before her in the last “hop,” and 
that the father was booked to join them some week-end 
soon. The letter closed with a warning to Miriam to 
guard against tan and sunburn, if possible to wear those 
thick cotton gloves and chiffon veil constantly. 

Miriam laughed as she looked at her hands. They were 
certainly tanned. “Oh, well, as long as I’m not coming 
out this winter,” she reflected, “College won’t matter.” 

The other letter was from her cousin Sedley Danvers. 
She would keep it for a treat that afternoon, under the 
oak tree. 

“Want a ride?” called a voice from the midst of a 
great load of hay behind her. 

“Where shall I sit, Uncle John?” 

“Just a minute and I’ll fix you. Up you go! Why, 
you’re getting fat. Any mail?” 

She handed over his bundle and stretched out lazily on 
top of the big load. 

“I’ll stop at Lauchy’s for a couple of hand rakes,” her 
uncle called back. “We want everybody at work this after- 
noon. John Ronald has that piece below the road cut and 
there’s going to be a change of weather. This is too hot 
to last. Are you good for work?” 

“Why yes, Uncle. I’m with you,” she assured him, 
heartily. 

Down by the store there was an excited group. Miriam, 
looking over the top of the load, saw that the interest was 
centered in an official-looking document, in somebody’s 
hands. Surely those were examination marks. She craned 
her neck farther out to look. Oh, she was slipping! In 
vain she clutched and clawed and called frantically. Down 
she came sliding and tumbling and sprawling with a 
bundle of hay right into the middle of the group on top 
of the precious paper. 

“You’re not hurt?” At first they were all solicitude. 


26 MIRIAM OF QUEEN'S 

But finding she was none the worse, there was a gradu- 
ally increasing chorus of laughter. Miriam knew after- 
wards how funny she must have looked, but just then 
she was too embarrassed to see the joke. Her cheeks were 
deep-dyed and she stepped out of that bundle of hay as 
though it had insulted her. The little red-haired Mac- 
Millan boy was giggling foolishly. 

“Thank you, no ; I’m not hurt. I slipped someway.” 

“Trying to see too much,” her uncle put in jocosely. 
“What were you reading, Hughie, that made all the com- 
motion?” 

Miriam stooped to brush the wisps of hay out of her 
skirt. Hughie was the black-eyed fisher-boy, and the tall 
man with the white beard must be Tom Angus Stewart, 
his father. 

“It’s the 'Grade A,' ” he explained proudly. “I just got 
my results.” 

“And you’ve passed, of course.” 

“Oh, yes, I’ve passed.” He folded the paper carefully. 

Lauchy nodded emphatically. “Hughie will be going 
up to Canady next Fall,” he announced, “to Principal 
Grant’s college.” 

“To Queen’s?” Miriam wheeled around in sudden de- 
light. She forgot all about the hay-cart and her awkward 
fall, forgot the way they had laughed at her. For a mo- 
ment she was back in Kingston near those enticing stone 
buildings, and the air was frosty, autumnal, and the city 
was full of students. 

“You’re going to Queen’s?” she repeated. “So am I. 
This Fall.” 

Hughie looked her over slowly. “Will girls be going 
to college?” His tone was too dubious to be compli- 
mentary. Miriam’s back stiffened. 

“Of course girls go. What marks did you get on 'A’ ? 
What did you do best in?” 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 27 

“Algebra,” he told her, “and physiology.” They 
scanned the paper together. Her Uncle John was in the 
little red store, dickering over rakes and wasting the pre- 
cious time he would need before evening if the hay were 
to be saved from a heavy downpour. 

Hughie had made his lowest marks in English. But no 
wonder. His parents both spoke Gaelic, and, although 
the children had been sent to school to learn English, the 
teacher was not much better trained (in English) than 
they. The result was most peculiar construction and most 
original pronunciation. The great corrective influence 
was the presence in their home of a few standard English 
books, which, being few, were read and re-read. Mac- 
Cheyne, Bunyan, Fox had unconsciously left their impress 
on the youth of the family, while the beauty and dignity 
of the Scriptural diction was ineffaceably impressed upon 
their memories. 

“Why, I thought our English paper was easy,” Miriam 
exclaimed. “I was finished half an hour too soon. Per- 
haps I didn’t do any too well, though. You never know 
how you’re going to come out. And then yours was a 
much harder exam.” She turned as her uncle emerged 
with the hand rakes, “No, I don’t think I’ll ride home, 
Uncle, thank you. I’ll walk.” 

“You don’t think you’d like to try another slide,” he 
laughed. “Well, we must be moving along. We’ll not be 
getting any dinner to-day.” 

Tom Angus waved hospitably towards his house on the 
hill. “Come along, all of you, and have dinner with us,” 1 
he urged. “Mary Hannah will be pleased to see you. We 
killed yesterday and they’re having the puddings to-day. 
Come now. You haven’t brought this young lady in for 
even a glass of cream since she came. You can put up 
the mare in the barn.” 

But amid expostulations and urgings Uncle John finally 


28 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

made it clear that he must proceed homewards. As a 
compromise, however, Miriam was detailed to accompany 
the hospitable Tom Angus. She was rather glad. It was 
fun to see the inside of people’s houses. Besides, she 
wanted to talk college with Hughie. It would be so nice 
to have some one she knew already when she went there. 

“Don’t stay too long after dinner,” her Uncle John 
called after her. “We’ll be needing you in the hay-field.” 

“Indeed you’ll not be getting her!” Hughie’s father re- 
torted. “Shame on you, John Campbell, making little girls 
do your work !” 

The other man laughed good-naturedly as he strode off 
by the hayload. 

“It’s not the raking I mind,” Miriam explained. “It’s 
the field mice. They glide along so suddenly when you’re 
not thinking of them.” 

Hughie burst into a roar of uncontrollable laughter. 
This was more in keeping with his idea of girls, this fear 
of mice, than college courses. And she had found the 
English paper easy ! He stole a secret glance at her. She 
was stepping quick and high, with those white shoes of 
hers. Most likely she was afraid of toads as well. 

“And have you the Gaelic?” the older man pursued, 
looking at the girl in a kindly way. “Is your father for- 
getting to teach you?” 

“I’m afraid father is forgetting it himself. It always 
upsets mother when he starts. She says he’s over-tired. 
Sometimes, though, he talks it to me when we’re out walk- 
ing, and I say ‘O tha’ (“Oh, yes”) or ‘Clia n-eil’ (“Oh, 
no”) every little while to make him laugh. And then 
when it gets monotonous I call ' 0 toirmisg oirbh * (“Oh, 
stop!”), and he does.” 

Hughie looked at his father and they both burst out 
laughing. Those fragments of Gaelic on a foreign tongue 
delighted them beyond measure. “She can speak it all 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 29 

right,” Tom Angus testified. Hugh was repeating * f O tha” 
under his breath with Miriam’s exact intonation. 

They turned in at the large gate and the big dog, 
Gelert, came swinging down to meet them, sniffing suspi- 
ciously at the hem of Miriam’s gingham frock. The road- 
way led through meadows not yet cut and starred thick 
with daisies. A long line of willows stooped carelessly 
over the course of a little brook which was making for 
the lake through grass and boulders. Its course was 
stopped by a miniature mill, whose paddlewheel was hard 
at work churning butter. Below the mill a flock of geese 
paddled in the water. A sheepskin, hung on the fence to 
dry, told the tale of the missing lamb in the flock, and 
incidentally promised fresh meat for dinner. It was not 
very pleasant to be faced with the source of supplies in 
that way. 

At the house the welcome was unmistakable. Miriam 
was encircled and kissed and questioned and laughed over 
and hugged as though she had been a long-lost friend. 
Everything she said appeared to furnish rare amusement 
for the rest, and the fact that she had suddenly come in 
for dinner would seem to be the most appropriate act of 
her life. She was borne off to the upstairs front bedroom 
where the window opened wide on a glory of meadow, 
lake and mountain. The walls were still of white plaster 
and there were hooked mats on the floor. But the bed- 
room suite was of oak and the few pictures were most 
up-to-date, especially the motto on white satin ribbon, 

“Sleep sweetly in this quiet room 
Oh thou, whoe’er thou art.” 

It must be the trained nurse sister, she concluded, home 
from Boston, who had brought these specialties, for the 
stores of the next village were miles away, and they never 
had mottoes or pictures anyway. Yes, there was a sun- 


3 o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

beam snap of her in her nurse’s cap. Miriam studied it, 
smoothing back her thick hair. The sister had the same 
straight features that Hughie had. 

A knock on the door and the mother entered with a 
small tray. “Just a bit of lunch, dearie, till the dinner 
will be ready,” she explained. “Sit you down here by 
the window, and have something; do! You must be hun- 
gry. They were after butchering yesterday and the pud- 
dings will be taking so long to cook, the creatures ! And 
there’s the fresh roast, but it’s not done yet; but, oh, it 
will be done whatever, before long. Come now, m’eudal 
(my dear) and have your drink. You’ll be faint without 
a bite.” 

The girl was quite overcome with such a flood of atten- 
tion. It is surprisingly easy to adjust one’s self to lux- 
uries, however, and Miriam found herself quite in her ele- 
ment sipping the tumbler of cream and eating those slices 
of bonnach (bannock), spread thick with matchless but- 
ter. Even the tiny dish of wild strawberry jam and the 
gingerbread disappeared under the urgent admonition of 
Hughie’s mother. “Come now, mo graidheag (my love- 
liest of dearies), make your lunch out. Indeed it’s a poor 
bite to bring you, but it’s something to stay you, and 
you’ll be the better of your dinner when it will be ready.” 

Miriam thought she could never even contemplate din- 
ner that day, but she had not reckoned on Cape Breton 
air. She made a tour of the barn with the older brother, 
Alan, and visited the churn again and drank from the 
clear spring underneath the willows, and swung in the 
hammock on the front verandah, entertaining the crowd 
of men delightfully with her Gaelic songs. 

“I’ll be bound you don’t know ‘O ro mo nighean donn 
bhoidheacK ” (“Oh, my pretty nut-brown maiden”), one 
of them said to draw her out. 

Yes, she knew that and sang it for them, and after- 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 31 

wards “Ged tha mi gun crodh gun aighean” (“Though I 
lack both cows and heifers”). “This is the one I like 
best,” she continued, her cheeks flushed with the exhilara- 
tion of so much unwonted attention. And before she 
knew it herself, off she went in a step dance, toe, heel, 
toe, on the bare verandah boards in perfect time. 

“Sirum sios , sirum suas 
Cha robh chnaimh do Ruaridh agam.” 

(“Seek him high, seek him low, 

Not a trace of Rory was there.”) 

There were roars of laughter, rounds of applause, and 
cries of “Suas a!” and when the call sounded down the 
hall, “Come in, all, to dinner,” Alan could scarcely keep 
from snatching her up and whirling her off with him to 
the dining-room. 

Just as they were seated at the table and Miriam was 
gazing in amazement at the size of the roast and the other 
platter of dark and light slices of — well, what were they? 
— and concluding that they would need full supplies for 
such a tableful, Tom Angus, about to bow for grace, 
spied something by the barn. 

“What is it, then, Tom?” his wife cried, impatiently. 
“Is it the mare in the grain ? Run you, Hughie, and shoo 
her out, the beast!” Her husband waited a full minute 
before replying, “It will be John Malcolm Maclnnis’ horse 
from Strathlorne, I doubt.” He rose slowly, still eyeing 
the approaching party. Then suddenly his whole face 
lighted. 

“It’s Mary Dolena herself, eudal!” (“darling!”) he ex- 
claimed, pushing from the table, “and Uncle Hugh.” 

With a smothered exclamation, Mrs. Stewart, trem- 
bling with loving excitement, snatched at her apron, poked 
at her hair, and was out on the verandah before her hus- 
band was half-way up the hall. 


32 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

A tall, handsome girl in a tailored suit had the little 
black figure in her arms a second later, while Tom Angus 
was wringing the hands of his eldest brother, Judge Stew- 
art, of Regina. 

“I brought your girl along, Hannah,” he called out, 
his fine face alight with pleasure. “I had to go to Boston 
on business, and I just walked into her boarding-house. 
She was going on another case, and I made her pack up 
then and there. Ha!” He started suddenly, and faced 
towards the hall, sniffing, “Maragan!” (“Pudding!”) he 
exclaimed, in great delight. “I tell you this is worth com- 
ing East for!” 

They made room at that marvellous table for the new- 
comers and the third cousin who had driven them over. 
Miriam, whose gingham was uncomfortable in the neigh- 
bourhood of the smart Boston suit, and who felt her 
tongue grow stiff at the easy Americanised accent of the 
owner, wondered at the way Judge Stewart went through 
his share of the puddings which she was trying to learn 
to like for her father’s sake. The dark kind wasn’t so bad, 
but the white ! He ate the lamb, too, voraciously, and the 
beets, and nearly yelled over the new potatoes, bursting 
their jackets in two huge vegetable dishes. Mrs. Stewart 
was for pouring cream over everything they ate witfi a 
reckless disregard of consequent refections. 

Tom Angus, in a moment’s lull, thinking their other 
guest forgotten, set about drawing Miriam out. 

“You remember Roderick Campbell of the Hill,” he 
began, smiling in the girl’s direction. “This will be his 
youngest daughter; Ruaridh Mor ” (“Big Rory”), he 
added, by way of jogging his brother’s memory. 

“Oh, yes, ‘Ruaridh na stron chrom ?’ (“Rory of the 
aquiline nose!”) the Judge burst out laughing. “And is 
this his girl? Well, well, I’m getting old.” He leant 


WHEN MEN ARE MERRIEST 33 

across the table and shook Miriam's hand cordially. “And 
what do they call you?” 

“Isabel Margaret Miriam,” she faltered. “Miriam, they 
call me.” 

In any other company the length of the old-fashioned 
name would have furnished some amusement, and Miri- 
am’s face was as red as the dish of beets in anticipation, 
for she knew from experience at school how oddly that 
name always struck people. 

But the Highlanders all nodded shrewdly, mentally 
affixing each name to its respective ancestor. “Pauline,” 
whose title had gratified her mother’s vagrant fancy, 
would have provoked some entertainment. But in this 
community where the names of the forefathers were vis- 
ited upon the children unto the third and fourth genera- 
tion, the girl found herself for once choicely and becom- 
ingly designated. 

“ Tsabel Margaret Miriam,’ ” the Judge repeated, bal- 
ancing a mealy potato on the tip of his fork as he pulled 
off the pink skin. “That will be for your grandmother, 
your auntie, and your great-grandmother MacLean.” 

“No, no, Hugh,” said young Hughie’s mother. “Her 
great-grandmother will be a Maclnnes.” 

“Tut, woman, I know better. Her grandmother was a 
sister of Alexander MacLean, Mac Ian ' ic Alastair (son 
of John, son of Alexander) from Glen Morien.” 

That settled it. “And how is your father?” asked Judge 
Stewart. “I haven’t seen him since we were boys. Will 
he be coming down this summer? I’d like to go fishing 
with him again. We used to have great talks in those 
old days down in Sandy Campbell’s cove. I often think 
of them out on the prairies. Regina’s all right, but there’s 
no place like Cape Breton.” 

At the name “Regina” Miriam pricked up her ears. 
She wished she could summon composure to say, “You 


34 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

come from Regina, Judge Stewart? I have relatives there. 
Perhaps you know them? The Bouldings. Mrs. Nathan- 
iel Boulding is my mother’s sister.” She had a secret mis- 
giving, however, that the Judge’s face would not light 
up in the same way that it had at the mention of her 
father’s name. While she hesitated, a heavy step was 
heard in the kitchen followed by a murmuring flow of 
Gaelic. Every one pushed back his chair, the plates being 
empty, anyway. 


CHAPTER III: OFT EXPECTATION FAILS 

“Oft expectation fails and most oft there 
Where most it promises. 

— All’s Well That Ends Well , Act II, Sc. i. 

“It's Chursty,” said Tom Angus, “come to pay her 
respects. She must have seen you driving past.” 

“What, Chursty Ian Bhain?” (“Christy, daughter of 
John the fair?”) his brother cried. “Bless me, not a day 
older,” he exclaimed, stooping as he entered the low 
kitchen. “Cia mar tha sibh fhein a Chursty?” (“How 
are you, yourself, Christy?”) his large hand held out. 

A big, spare frame clothed in black print, a wrinkled, 
masculine face looking out from a large bandanna, and 
feet which strove to seem at ease in stiff boots, such was 
Chursty, the character of the whole countryside. She had 
come from the Highlands of Scotland at two years of 
age, she would tell you, and she lived presumably with 
her nephew. For the most part, however, her days were 
spent in one continuous round of “ceilidh” (visiting) 
and “tea bheag” (little teas). She gathered news and 
spread it far and wide. No society column could furnish 
half the personal tidbits that Chursty managed to collect 
on a day’s rounds, nor retail them with such relish and 
such embellishment. Her sober, black figure moved 
through the waving grass in the little cemetery below the 
church whenever any one was laid to rest. She was the 
first to taste the bottle of whisky stored up for celebra- 
tion over the new baby. And did an old inhabitant re- 
turn for a visit, it was Chursty who heard or saw him 
before any one else and followed up straightway to get 
the news. 


35 


36 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

She had tramped barefoot up the road to see the Judge. 
But just inside the lower gate she drew on a pair of hard 
boots, and tucked out of sight in her calico pocket the 
old clay pipe, her daily companion. Chursty felt a certain 
pride in this masculine indulgence, yet, in company with 
a class of her sisters who court an unsavory distinction 
in this direction, there lingered in her bosom a shred of 
delicacy. She knew John Campbell’s niece was at the 
Stewart’s. Lauchy had told her as she passed the store, 
and she preferred not to shock the girl’s youthful suscep- 
tibilities at the outset of their acquaintance. Still she had 
her pipe by her and there lodged deep in her heart the 
hope that the Judge might not have forgotten his old gift: 
of tobacco. 

Nor had he. There it was in the corner of his grip, 
purchased by a happy thought at Strathlorne on his way, 
but none the less welcome, and the sight of that fragrant: 
weed so wrought on the old woman’s affections that the 
flood-gates of Gaelic were opened wide and out there 
streamed questions, exclamations and reminiscences, in- 
terspersed with a dozen terms of endearment. 

Miriam always felt shut out in the cold when Gaelic 
began, and she thought it high time to be turning home- 
wards. Sedley’s letter burned in her pocket. Besides, 
Hughie’s mother must want to talk to Mary Dolena. But 
when would the dishes ever be washed? There they lay 
in chill confusion in the deserted dining-room, and the 
kitchen fire was quite out, resting from its labors after 
the achievement of the dinner, puddings, roast and all. 
It would seem officious to offer to help. Besides, there 
wasn’t a woman in sight. Miriam hesitated at the front 
door. Sounds of voices came from above. Happily she 
had no hat to get. Her sunshade was in the porch. Still 
she must say good-bye. She sauntered out to the veran- 


OFT EXPECTATION FAILS 37 

dah. Yes, there was Hughie by the barn. She could 
speak to him. 

What a soft, springy walk it was, with the breeze fold- 
ing and floating her light skirts about her and the long, 
murmurous silence of the country all around. One would 
think that nobody would want to leave such an idyllic 
spot for the traffic of cities. And yet there was Hughie 
as eager for college as she was, and Hughie's uncle, who 
had pushed out and away to far Regina. And he was 
known and influential, while his brother on the farm 
would never be heard of further than Strathlome or Mar- 
garee. Yet you could not say he was wasting his life any 
more than her Uncle John. If Uncle John had married, 
his boys might have gone to college, but his girls would 
never fare further than Boston. After all, she was glad 
that her father had left Cape Breton ; glad, too, that she 
had Cape Breton to come back to on a summer's day like 
this when it would be stifling in Ottawa. 

“I think I’ll go on home now," she told Hughie, as 
she came up to the barn. “Will you tell your mother I 
didn't want to disturb her to say good-bye?" 

Hugh was sitting on the side of the roller, whittling. 
“Oh, you'd better not hurry," he rejoined. “It's early 
yet." 

Miriam whirled her parasol around as it rested on her 
shoulder. “I've quite a way to go, and it might rain," 
she said, glancing up at the fleecy clouds. 

Now Hugh was about to drive to the store for fresh 
supplies of groceries, and he longed to ask her to go with 
him. But he would not get over the teasing for a year. 

“You’ll tell your mother, won't you ?" the girl repeated, 
moving slowly away and still twirling her parasol. “I 
wouldn't want her to think me rude.” 

“Yes, I’ll tell her." He snapped the knife shut and 


38 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

rose abruptly. “Are you going down by the road? There’s 
a short cut through the grain.” 

“I thought they didn’t let you.” 

“Let you what?” 

“Walk in the grain. They’re always chasing the horses 
out of it.” 

“Oh, I mean along by the fence. See, this way.” He 
led off promptly, glad of the excuse, then stopped short. 
“Can you get over ?” 

She lay down and rolled, coming out on the grain side. 
Hughie laughed as he vaulted after. 

“There’s Chursty leaving now,” he announced. “I sup- 
pose she couldn’t wait any longer for her smoke.” 

“Smoke?” the girl echoed. 

“Yes, didn’t you know she smoked? If we wait here 
we’ll see her light up when she gets behind the barn.” 

They dropped down inside the fence and peeked through 
the bars. The old woman, quite unsuspecting, came tramp- 
ing along painfully in her company footgear. She looked 
around cautiously after she passed the last barn door, but 
seeing no one near she fumbled with a little old knife 
and filled her black pipe. Then down she sat and began 
to pull off her boots. 

This was too much for Miriam. Despite herself, she 
snickered. Whether it was the sound, or the sudden 
glimpse of the light frock among the grain, it would be 
hard to tell, but Chursty stumbled up in haste, tucked her 
boots under her arms, crammed the pipe in her pocket, 
and started on her old swinging gait down the road. 

“She saw us,” Miriam whispered. Hughie stretched 
his brown neck over the fence-rails. “Look at her go! 
Can you see her? See her bare feet!” he chuckled. 

Miriam’s white sneakers promptly mounted two fence 
rails for a better view. “She’s smoking,” the girl cried 
out suddenly. “I mean her dress. Look at the smoke.” 


OFT EXPECTATION FAILS 39 

In another second she was up and over the top of the 
fence, dropping like a squirrel on the other side. Hughie 
was only beginning to understand the situation when the 
girl went flying down the road. 

“ You’ re burning, Chursty! You’re on fire! Your dress 
is full of smoke.” She panted as she ran. 

The old woman seemed not to hear. Then on a sudden 
she caught the smell of burning and jumped as though 
the very “donas” (devil) were behind. Her yell of terror 
could be heard far down the cove. “Dhia Eudal; tha mi 
am theine!” (“Good Lord! Pm on fire!”) she cried, tear- 
ing at her calico gown in helpless confusion. 

But Miriam was quicker. They were just beside the 
spring, and an old bucket lay on the flat stone. Up it 
came, brimming, and poured over the old woman, sous- 
ing her again and again till she was in new peril of 
drowning. 

Trembling with indignation and relief, Chursty fum- 
bled among the soggy folds of cotton. Down on the flat 
stone crashed the old clay pipe, smashing into a dozen 
bits, and she muttered an invective so fiercely Gaelic that 
even Miriam caught its significance. 

But the tobacco was spared. The sodden black lump 
was dragged out carefully and wrapped in her bandanna 
headdress which had escaped the deluge. Nodding and 
muttering at Miriam, whether in thanks or contempt she 
could not determine, Chursty swung on her solitary way. 

“I hope she won’t get cold with all that wetting.” 

“No, she won’t get cold. She’s as tough as a gad.” 
Hughie came up breathless. “She’s got it in for you,” he 
added mischievously. 

“Really, I didn’t mean to soak her so.” 

“It will do her good. It will be the first bath she’s had 
this year.” 

Miriam laughed uneasily. She felt afraid of the fierce 


4 o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

old woman. “Well, I’ll say good-bye again,” she said hur- 
riedly. “I’ll never get home at this rate.” 

“Good-bye just now, then,” Hughie returned, remem- 
bering his trip to the store. 

Miriam sped down the hill, looking towards the west 
to see whether that rain were at hand. Had Uncle John 
got his hay in? Yes, there was a load far down, making 
for the barn. Perhaps she ought to go up to the house 
first. She met Aunt Hannah coming from the spring with 
the creamer. There was a strange buggy by the barn door. 

“Run you in and talk to the minister,” she panted, re- 
fusing Miriam’s offered help. “I’ve got muffins and gin- 
gerbread in the ‘ofen’ and I’ll bring in a glass of cream. 
He’ll not stay to tea. He’s going to the Outlet to see 
Reverend Neil MacFarlane from West Lake.” 

“I’m not very presentable,” Miriam parried unwillingly. 

“Oh, you’re fine, m’eudal (dear). Run then like the 
good girl. He’ll be after finding the time long.” 

The minister was seated on the haircloth sofa, his 
hands crossed over the handle of his umbrella, his mild 
blue gaze fixed on the western windows in expectation of 
the coming storm which would surely drench him before 
he reached the Outlet. He really didn’t want the glass of 
cream, but it would never do to say so, and of course it 
was quite a long way to the spring. 

Now Miriam had always harboured a secret dread of 
ministers. They seemed the embodiment of the mystery 
and solemnity of religion. There was about them some- 
thing almost uncanny, as though they savoured of the 
Black Art. Their wives she pitied. No doubt they were 
daily subjected to an inspection of soul, kindly conducted 
of course, but none the less thorough. The inspection 
probably began in a pleasant conversational way like the 
illustrations in their sermons but ended with a strong per- 
sonal application. From childhood Miriam had feared to 


OFT EXPECTATION FAILS 41 

find herself alone when the minister made his semi-annual 
call. She was afraid he would begin to question her as 
to her spiritual condition, and while she was not without 
convictions and aspirations of a certain type, she shunned 
laying bare her soul to the gaze of a practised eye which 
had looked into the souls of old and orthodox Christians 
of unquestioned conversion and rich experience. Her ex- 
perience was so meagre and as for her conversion she 
sometimes wondered whether it had ever taken place. 

But here was Auntie’s minister waiting alone, and she 
must go in and talk to him. It couldn’t be very long now 
till the biscuits were done, and she could talk fast about 
everything secular so as to keep him from getting on 
dangerous ground. 

He turned his kind eyes as she entered the room. “And 
how are you?” he asked, rising to shake hands. “You’re 
Miss Campbell’s niece,” he added. 

“Yes, from Ottawa. I’m visiting her for a few weeks. 
Father used to live here, and he always likes us to come 
down for the summer, but Mother doesn’t like it so well 
as Murray Bay or Kennebunkport. But I do. I like every- 
thing here, even to the cream. Don’t you like cream, Mr. 
Farquharson? Auntie’s bringing you in some in a mo- 
ment.” She paused to get breath, confident that he could 
find no opening there for a spiritual application. 

Mr. Farquharson was smiling at her vivacity. “Yes, I 
certainly like cream,” he agreed pleasantly. “But your 
aunt should not trouble. I just dropped in for a minute 
on my way to the Outlet to see her and have a few words 
with you for your father’s sake.” 

Miriam’s colour flamed up like a signal. Now it was 
coming. A few words from the minister could mean only 
one thing. It was just as well to have it over and be 
branded as a goat once for all, as to have this continual 
terror and uncertainty. 


42 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“How are you getting on at school ?” the minister con- 
tinued, wondering at the girl’s discomfiture. 

“School” — Miriam gasped in sudden awful relief. In 
she plunged to a headlong description of all the teachers 
in the Collegiate Institute, with hysterical portraiture of' 
their various peculiarities and the particulars of the many 
good jokes the witty ones in the various forms had had 
at their expense. And what she had said to the Principal 
and what he had replied and how all the form had roared, 
and so on and so on until she drew up again, certain that 
the minister would conclude she was a hopelessly worldly 
character. 

“And you’re going to Queen’s,” Mr. Farquharson re- 
joined enthusiastically, “to my old Alma Mater .” 

“Is it yours, too?” Miriam gasped. “Why it’s every- 
body’s. Every one seems to have gone there.” 

“You’re sure to hear about it if they have, at any rate,” 
he laughed. “We’re a close corporation, perhaps too close 
for our own good, or the good of the college. But that’s 
an open question. This Queen’s spirit has buoyed up the 
University in many a crisis, many a crisis,” he repeated, 
gazing towards the window again. 

“Mr. Farquharson, I’m after being ashamed to be so 
long with the lunch, but the ‘ofen’ was slow. But you’ll 
sit in and have a bite.” Aunt Hannah Campbell was drag- 
ging the album off the centre table and spreading a cloth 
whereon she deposited plates of hot biscuits and muffins 
and a jug of cream which might make a stronger man 
quail so soon after his dinner. Aunt Hannah’s conserva- 
tive estimate of the digestive capacity of an ordinary min- 
ister would certainly prove startling. Mr. Farquharson 
was accommodating, well-meaning, and resourceful, but 
the appealing glance of his blue eyes away from those 
plates of hot bread would have touched any one but a 
Highland woman. Even while Miriam was breathlessly 


OFT EXPECTATION FAILS 43 

excusing herself, Aunt Hannah mercilessly proceeded to 
pour out cream. 

On a pile of hay in the loft, the last load for that after- 
noon, Miriam pulled her cousin’s letter out of her pocket. 
The barn was very quiet, save for the flap-flap of the 
swallows up among the rafters and the crown beam above 
her head. She stretched herself full-length in the warm 
hay. 

“Dear little cousin: — 

“You want the setting first of all, I know. Well, I am 
sitting all alone in the dining-room at the big table with 
my fountain and a pad. You always like a pad for let- 
ters, you know, because it ‘looks limitless.’ I have the 
house all to myself this afternoon for mother has gone 
out to the country with father to visit one of his cases, 
and Mary Ann has her afternoon off. So I volunteered 
to answer the telephone and bell. We miss Elizabeth ter- 
ribly. Not about answering the bells, but in a thousand 
ways. She said she had heard from you two or three 
times. You have only written me one real letter. Did you 
know you left your copy of Longfellow behind? I found 
it on the back drawing-room mantelpiece the day I re- 
turned from Toronto and I carried it off captive to my 
room, with all its queer pencillings and underlinings and 
question marks, just like a Miriam in miniature. What- 
ever can you see in The Bridge or Endymion? You have 
jboth those marked, and 

“ There is no light at all in heaven 
But the white light of stars.’ 

You underscored that in a most impressive way. Now, 
why? I wish I had you here beside me this afternoon to 
put you through your facings to see what you have been 
reading. I’m glad Longfellow is here so you won’t study 


44 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

him too much. I’m pretty sure you can’t find anything 
but Burns at Uncle John’s. 

“Letter from your father just arrived. He says the 
Hotchkiss family are moving to Kingston next month. 
You know Cora, don’t you? I met her at Muskoka. It’s- 
too hot for anything here. I’ve been out to two tennis 
teas and a hop at the yacht squadron. That’s the extent 
of my dissipation. I’m only writing staccato this after- 
noon. They say your soul never wakes up till after din- 
ner. I think mine went to sleep the morning you left and 
it’s still comatose. 

“Write me as soon as this reaches you. Whether you’re 
hay-making or eating porridge, stop short and say, T must 
write to Sedley immediately,’ 

“Because I am, 

“Always, 

“Your 

“Most loving 
“Cousin.” 

Miriam climbed down from the loft and made her way 
out. The clouds had burst in a sudden shower and then 
passed off. Up the slope of the hill, where the hay had 
been cut, one could look across the lake. The evening 
sky was fresh, bright-coloured, clean. Some breath of 
Nature’s loveliness stole into her heart as she looked. 


CHAPTER IV: SPEAK FAIR 


“Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator. 

Look sweet, speak fair.” 

— Comedy of Errors , Act III, Sc. 2. 

“Elmer, stop calling! You’ll wake Baby!” 

“Well, Mamma,” this in a horse whisper, up the stairs, 
“may I have a soda biscuit ? This bread’s so stale.” 

“No! If the bread is good enough for your father it 
will surely do for you. And hurry or you’ll be late.” 

The dining-room door shut. Mrs. Dan Rutherford 
glanced towards the crib. There would soon be peace. It 
was nearly school time. 

“Mamma, where’s my scribbler ? There’s the first bell ! 
Mamma !” 

Mrs. Rutherford ran down the stairs in a whirlwind 
of exasperation. “Didn’t I tell you not to shout? Your 
book must be where you left it. And you must not stamp 
through the parlor.” 

“Well, I can’t find my scribbler nor my pencil. And 
there’s the first bell.” 

“Here ’tis.” Elmer emerged triumphantly. “On the 
piano, and your pencil inside it. Say, Mamma, there’s 
some one pounding on the back door.” 

“Oh, the milkman, I suppose. And the bottles aren’t 
ready.” She started down the hall. “And there’s the tele- 
phone !” 

As the front door slammed after the boys, a petulant 
cry from above heralded the return to consciousness of 
Miss Vivian Alicia Rutherford. 

But her mother was already “on the ’phone.” 

“Oh, is it you, Dan?” Annoyance struggled with sur- 
45 


46 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

prise in her tone. It was odd to have her husband call 
her up so soon after leaving. 

“A letter from Tom? To stay here? Well, upon my 
word, I think you were pretty cool to ask them without 
consulting me. I did? Well, I may have said that, but I 
certainly never thought they would come. Oh, it’s all 
right for you, but it’s a different matter for me with a 
perfect stranger, and a bride at that, and no help and all 
these children. Oh, I’ll manage some way. I’ll have to, 
of course.” 

She hung up the telephone sharply, and mounted the 
stairs. Her feelings were not unruffled. This new sister- 
in-law had figured largely in her mind of late. The ac- 
count of the church wedding, from which Baby’s cold 
had kept her, had been really quite disconcerting, with its 
description of all the fine guests. Little Mrs. Dan Ruther- 
ford was very ambitious socially and expected some pres - 
tiqe from this connection with the Danvers and Camp- 
bells. 

Did she forget how much they all owed to her hus- 
band, to her quiet, plodding Dan, of the Cherry Cordial 
Company, whose self-denial had put the younger brother, 
Tom, through an honour course at College and settled 
him as English master in the Kingston Collegiate ? It wa9 
Tom’s personality, Tom’s worth and Tom’s education 
that gave tone to all the elaborate flutter of that wedding. 

Tom would have said that it was Elizabeth. No one 
could have convinced him that this long and arduous road 
had at the end a better reward than that which he had 
won — his Elizabeth, tall, fearless and tender. And now 
that their ways had joined, and life, their life together, 
stretched out a golden pathway down the years, he must 
have, to walk it gladly, the blessing of that good brother, 
Dan, who had helped him on the rocky pathway of his 
early days. 


SPEAK FAIR 47 

“Let us pay Dan a few days’ visit before the Colle- 
giate opens. It would do him a world of good.” This 
had been his suggestion. 

“Why, yes, dear, if Clara would be ready to have us.” 

“She’ll never be ready. But she’ll give us a welcome, 
you’ll see.” 

“Well, then, that’s all I want. And the children will be 
the best part of it.” 

Tom laughed apologetically. “They’re not exactly your 
kind of children, Elizabeth. Little rowdies, the boys are, 
and the girl a baby thing.” 

“Why Tom! All children are my kind. Did you hear 
the compliment I got from the little girl next door? She 
told Mother that I had ‘a children’s face,’ and 'that means 
a loving face,’ she explained.” 

Tom looked at her as though he thought an angel’s 
face the best description. 

Brother Dan being duly notified, the message had come 
through to Clara on this first morning of school, when 
the five and seven year old boys were being started on 
the royal road. Clara Rutherford was dismayed. She had 
doubtfully concurred in Dan’s invitation, feeling certain 
that it would have no attraction for “Miss Danvers.” 

She did not count on Elizabeth’s fine sensitiveness. 
Nor could she understand that her decision to accept 
Brother Dan’s hospitality was prompted by a desire to 
show her appreciation of this most unselfish older brother 
who had made her husband’s success a possible thing. 

They would arrive Thursday morning and leave Fri- 
day evening. Dan was as excited as a boy. “You’ll want 
some extra things,” he urged. “I’ll write you out a cheque 
at noon.” This was Tuesday. 

Extra things! Clara nodded grimly at the other end 
of the ’phone. Though she might pose as homemaker, 
Clara was no cook, and their larder could never be called 
stocked. And the guest-room! Clara went in to inspect 


48 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

it, Vivian on one arm. A bride would notice old things 
so quickly. 

“Oh, Baby!” she exclaimed, setting the fat bundle on 
the floor. “Whatever will mother do?” Then of a sud- 
den her glance fell on a pair of shabby little tan boots 
right in the middle of the rug. Snatching them up, she 
kissed them tenderly, thinking of the stout, shining black 
ones which had trudged to school. Vivian Alicia put up 
one fat hand to stroke her face. She never liked tears 
from big people. A moment after, her mother picked her 
up, and started resolutely to work. 

The next two days were long remembered in the Ruth- 
erford family. Mrs. Dan had her household drilled into 
ways of neatness. Nellie, the washerwoman’s daughter, 
had consented to assist, provided she might bring her two 
months’ baby with her. Elmer and Claude were chased 
from corner to corner with their clothes, books and toys. 
Baby’s fresh frocks were hoarded, and the mother, her 
expression one of strained endeavour, trotted around the 
little house until she had it reduced to a state of subdued 
expectancy. Poor Dan’s pleasure in the visit was dulled 
by his weight of guilt in having put this load on Clara. 
At every turn he was made to feel that his relatives were 
expected, yet was too generous to recall the many inva- 
sions from the other side of the house. Never had there 
been such preparations as these, for, with her own rela- 
tives Clara had no standards to set up. She knew enough 
of Elizabeth’s manner of life, however, to dread making 
the contrast with their own too marked. 

“Elmer, stand still! Your garter has slipped three 
times. Now where is your tie?” 

Claude was weaving it in and out of the coils. 

“Give it to me this moment !” His mother’s voice was 
tense with excitement. It was twenty minutes to train- 
time. Vivian Alicia, resplendent in her red silk dress with 


SPEAK FAIR 49 

lace frills, was securely fastened in her high chair, and 
Nellie, arrayed in bib-apron and cap, was rustling in and 
out of the dining-room. Everything would go well if she 
could once get herself dressed. 

“There, boys! Now go ahead and sit on the parlor 
sofa. Don’t stir till you hear the cab. Now remember, 
no spilling at luncheon.” 

“What’s luncheon?” Elmer questioned pugnaciously. 
“Nellie said it was dinner.” 

Mrs. Rutherford was hurrying on her things. “No, 
luncheon !” she retorted. “We have dinner to-night.” 

“Well, she’s cooking potatoes.” 

“Supposing she is, they’re for luncheon, potato balls. 
Now go, boys !” 

“Well, will we have them two times?” they demanded. 

Mrs. Rutherford brushed up her hair wrathfully. “Go 
downstairs!” she commanded, then frowned at her face 
in the mirror, and choked back a sob. It had been such 
a rush ! 

“There’s the cab!” Claude shouted. Elmer echoed the 
shout, and Vivian Alicia, adding her quota, struggled in 
her strappings with a wild effort for freedom. A cab was 
an event. 

The combined noise awakened the two-months-old, who 
was tucked away on a sofa in the kitchen. So that when 
Elizabeth, tall and ruffly and sweet, had embraced two 
little Russian blouses and a red silk dress, she turned to 
Clara to ask after the baby, whose wails were rising 
higher. “I forgot you had one so young,” she apologised. 

“It isn’t ours! It’s Nellie’s!” Elmer burst out. “It’s 
asleep on the kitchen sofa while Nellie cooks the dinner — 
the luncheon, I mean. But we have potatoes,” he added, 
comfortingly. 

“Two times to-day,” Claude supplemented. 

Tom Rutherford, not knowing of Nellie’s connections, 


50 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

looked uncomfortable, and Mrs. Dan, to avoid revealing 
the whole domestic train of affairs, bustled her new sis- 
ter-in-law up to the irreproachable bed-chamber, while 
Nellie applied herself to her maternal duty below. 

“I feel very guilty in coming in on you this way, 
Clara,” the younger Mrs. Rutherford said, turning her 
warm gaze on the little woman beside her. “You must 
please let us be of as little trouble as possible.” 

Clara’s round eyes were roving over every detail of 
the bride’s travelling suit. She quickly recalled them. 

“Oh, we live very simply,” she said, with an assump- 
tion of carelessness. “You must just take us as you find 
us.” 

“And so I shall be glad to do,” Elizabeth assured her, 
bending to arrange her thick hair at the little mirror, and 
serenely unconscious of this scrutiny. “When our hus- 
bands are such very dear brothers we must try to be very 
dear sisters, must we not?” 

Clara, who had been covertly examining the new Fall 
hat on the bed behind Elizabeth’s back and mentally re- 
modelling her own, attempted an answer. “Certainly not,’” 
she agreed. “I mean, yes, certainly. I’m always ready for 
another sister, though I have six of my own. When 
mother introduced us she used to say, ‘And here’s still 
another one, and still another one/ until she got mixed 
one day and said, ‘And here’s another still one/ and she 
was the very loudest. I envy your being the only daugh- 
ter. You’d have some prominence. How would you like 
to be presented to a gentleman friend like this — ‘Meet 
Miss Atkinson. There are seven Miss Atkinsons/ ” 

Elizabeth’s soft laugh floated out. “I’d run away,” she 
said, “if I were the man. But you see Dan didn’t. After 
all, there was only one Miss Atkinson for him !” 

Clara laughed and blushed. It is pleasant to be chaffed 


SPEAK FAIR Si 

about your sweetheart days when household cares make 
you feel like a grandmother. 

“Is this one of the sisters ?” Elizabeth asked, picking 
up a photograph which was propped against the mirror. 

A keen shaft darted from the corner of sister Clara’s 
eyes. “That?” she said, crooking her head around Eliza- 
beth’s arm to look. “Oh, no! Tom will know who that 
is. That’s one of his old and very particular friends. 
He has visited us quite a lot, you know.” 

Elizabeth did not satisfy her with even the faintest 
flush. “He will be interested in seeing it then,” she said 
pleasantly, and put the photograph down. 

Something in the girl’s very poise checked further rail- 
lery. Assuming her little air of importance, Clara tucked 
her short arm through Elizabeth’s. “Shall we go down 
for lunch?” 

“I want to sit by Aunt Elizabeth! No, I do! No, you 
don’t ! Ma ! Ma !” Elizabeth’s eyes, dancing with merri- 
ment, grasped the situation in a trice. 

“I want to sit by my husband! I want to sit by my 
husband!” she shrilled in exact imitation, and dropped 
into the seat assigned her between Dan and Tom. Mes- 
merised by this amazing young Aunt, the boys, open- 
mouthed, climbed into their chairs, Vivian’s spoon ter- 
minating its tatoo in mid-air. 

“Just wait until you grow up a husband, Elmer,” his 
Uncle Tom argued, “and see if you don’t want to sit 
next to your own wife.” 

“I’m not going to grow up a husband,” Elmer returned 
darkly. “I’m going to grow up a Principal.” 

Dan, lavishly serving the viands, chuckled over the 
boy’s ambition. “You see, it’s in the family, this peda- 
gogy.” Mother Clara beamed in corroboration. 

“Why in the world do you want to be a Principal, 
Elmer ?” his uncle pursued with uncanny prescience. 


52 MIRIAM OF QUEEN'S 

Elmer wagged his head knowingly. “So's I can strap 
the boys,” he hinted, smiling with an unholy joy. 

The burst of laughter brought Nellie from the kitchen. 
She bowed affably to the tableful, her cap over one eye. 
“How d'ye do!” she said. Clara Rutherford crimsoned 
with mortification. 

“How do you do?” Elizabeth returned sweetly. “I 
wonder if I might have a glass of water. My throat 
aches with laughing at that boy!” 

The willing feet turned at once. “Sure you could!” 
Then, addressing Dan as head of the feast, she asked, 
“Will you excuse me?” 

To save the situation Dan plunged the conversation 
in medias res. “How are you going to like housekeep- 
ing, you two?” 

“You should say ‘you one' !” Elizabeth returned. “Tom 
refuses to take any interest even in my drawing-room 
curtains.” 

Clara nodded shrewdly. “Just like Dan. I’ve been teas- 
ing him for new dining-room furniture this long time 
and he won't see that there’s anything wrong with this.” 

“Neither there is,” Elizabeth kindly interposed. 

Tom turned to his brother. “There’s none so blind — 
is that it, old chap? It’s on the same principle that I 
won’t look at Elizabeth’s curtains, so that when they get 
worn I’ll be able to say, T don’t notice any difference.’ 
All the same we’ve got everything cosy as can be. I’m 
so glad to be able to entertain the students, our own 
Collegiates and those from the University. I’ll never for- 
get the hospitality extended to me when I was a student. 
We used to get so satiated with ‘refreshments’ in the 
College and so tired of our boarding-house room, that 
to have the freedom of a pleasant home and a family re- 
past was just splendid. Especially to sit by a grate-fire. 


SPEAK FAIR 


53 

I’m so thankful we have a grate in our living-room, Eliza- 
beth” 

Elizabeth’s warm smile answered his enthusiasm. 
“ We’re going to have one freshette that I know to sit 
by it often,” she returned. “My little cousin, Miriam 
Campbell, from Ottawa, Clara. I expect she’ll be very 
lonely at first.” 

“We must not let her be,” Tom rejoined. “I only 
wish that we could have her stay with us, but I suppose 
her people wouldn’t hear of it. Anyway, we have only 
one extra room, and I sometimes want a boy visitor. I 
do like boys,” he continued at random and apparently 
unaware of two pairs of eyes fixed on him from across 
the table. “I wonder, Clara, whether you know of any 
boy who would come up to Kingston and sleep in that 
room? I could give him a good time, I think; take him 
to see the Asylum and the Royal Military College and 
the Penitentiary and the University. And if it were sum- 
mer take him in my sail-boat, and if it were winter, ice- 
boating.” 

“I’d go, Uncle Tom!” “No, I’d go!” “No, I said it 
first!” “Well, I’m older’n you!” 

“Boys! Boys!” their mother admonished, while Tom 
and Dan threw back their heads in such shouts of laugh- 
ter that they could scarcely hear Elizabeth’s whole-souled 
reproof. 

“You just drew them on, Tom ! You meant to! Paint- 
ing such vivid pictures of Kingston’s delights! Never 
mind, boys, you’ll get a real invitation from your Aunt 
Elizabeth the first time that mother can spare you. That 
room can easily hold two.” 

Delighted nudges from two little elbows into adjoining 
ribs! Fascinated smiles directed towards Aunt Elizabeth! 

Clara Rutherford shook her head dubiously. “I’m 
afraid they’d run on you, my dear, not being used to 


54 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

children. But if they’ll be real good boys from now on 
we’ll see what’ll happen.” 

Seated on the prim sofa in the front room, half an 
hour later, a little “Russian blouse” on either side, Eliza- 
beth listened with what grace she could muster to Clara’s 
piano “execution.” For Tom’s sake, and for Dan’s, she 
forced herself to smilingly endure. It can not be won- 
dered at that she found herself giving thanks that her 
new sister’s line of life did not follow her own exactly. 
Distance was not always an evil. And then one could be 
sisterly without opening out the secret chambers of the 
heart! But Tom, how he doted on his brother! And 
with reason. Yet with all their resemblance Tom was 
unique. Elizabeth smiled inwardly as she convicted her- 
self of the age-old sin of the newlywed. And then 
a sudden little stifled sigh on her right hand discovered a 
suppressed yawn on her left, and she squeezed the brown 
hands sympathetically. Mother Clara was crashing her 
final chords and there was well-founded hope of release. 

“My old music-teacher lives out West now,” the plump 
little performer twirled around on the stool to inform 
her, her face crimson with tension. “I’m not keeping up 
my practising as I should” — manipulating pudgy fingers 
in proof — “but I 'took’ from her for a long while. Mrs. 
'Judge’ Stewart she is now.” 

“And are these boys going to learn to play like 
Mother?” Elizabeth cried gaily, to avoid complications. 

Claude snickered; Elmer shook his head emphatically. 
“I’m going to learn to play hockey!” 

“As long as you don’t play hookey, it’s all right,” his 
Uncle Tom returned, and at the word a train of reminis- 
cence came moving from out the shadowy past of boy- 
hood, completely engrossing the brothers grown. And 
making it almost impossible for Mother Clara to persuade 
the brothers ungrown that bed was the proper medium 


SPEAK FAIR 


55 

through which to attain to age and experience. Uncle 
Tom’s jokes and Father’s stories were the centrifugal 
force operating away from the downy nest towards which 
they were lured. But long after their noisy little boots 
were silenced, above, Elizabeth sat entranced by this 
glimpse into the unknown which discovered for her her 
husband and explained him, as no mutual acquaintance 
could ever have done. How much does the proper “set- 
ting” count in placing a man ! Perhaps it was a pity that 
their life’s lines were not running parallel if these brothers 
meant so much to each other. What would she do with 
Sedley far away, for instance? What could she ever do? 
She never thought of her brother without mentally affix- 
ing his alliterative attribute — “splendid Sedley.” And 
the picture of him, keen-eyed, swift-smiling and fervid, 
was followed by an impression of her cousin Miriam, 
with eager visitings of Nature palpable in her dark eyes. 
Why should she link the two with something stronger 
than the frail cord of relationship? Why, indeed, unless 
it were more than a fancy that they were joined by a 
spiritual bond? A bond which included her life, too, for 
surely this little girl was something nearer than a cousin. 
How to help her? How to give of the best that she had 
gathered, to show the more excellent way, to kindle, to 
restrain? With Elizabeth Rutherford the impulse to be- 
stow was always dominant, nor was it marred by any 
pose of mentor. And could Miriam have but known it, 
a full curriculum of natural endowments and womanly 
virtues was available for all her college years through 
intercourse with Elizabeth herself. 

But here was Clara down again, heated and tired, and, 
for the first time, able to relax. Remorseful for her iso- 
lation of spirit, Elizabeth turned to her, bending her full 
powers on establishing some common base, and asked 
about the children. 


56 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“Oh, they are the limit ! I left Elmer wondering why 
God ever made that promise to Abraham that he should 
live and multiply — that wasn’t a thing to be glad about, 
he said, it was far harder than addition.” 

“He’s a son of his father,” Dan Rutherford pro- 
claimed. “I used to think that ‘twain' was a kind of 
twilled sheeting. ‘With twain he did cover his face, with 
twain he did cover his head, and with twain he did fly/ ” 

“And you used to call that an ‘untidy hymn’ — ‘We 
plough the fields and scatter,’ ” cried Tom. “Don’t you 
remember? Oh, no, of course you don’t.” 

“I wish you could give me some good jokes on Tom,” 
Elizabeth said. “I’d save them to tease him with when 
needful.” 

“There never were any good jokes on me, my dear 
wife. I always did everything that was perfectly right 
and proper, even to marrying the most beautiful — oh, 
very well — but — everybody knows ” 

The party broke up in laughing tumult and followed 
the children to bye-lo-land. Yet, long after the rest of 
the household were wrapt in slumber deep Elizabeth 
Rutherford lay thinking of college days. The moonlight 
filtering through the window made her hungry for the 
old stimulus and stir, the days of crowded lectures, the 
nights of study, and running through them all the fine 
threads of friendship. To feel justified in spending hours 
with Carlyle, Browning and such stalwarts, to know that 
one ought to read poetry, to be obliged to listen to inspir- 
ing lectures from master minds, surely this was making 
of duty a delight ! 

It was all over for her! Yes, over for her. And as 
she moved into the larger sphere of wifehood and the 
home, there, in the stream of new life, sweeping past 
her to fill the old college halls, glided Miriam Campbell, 
into her old place, its opportunities offered to her afresh, 
its experiences beckoning. 


CHAPTER V: DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 

“Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun 
That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks.” 

— Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act I, Sc. I. 

The campus was aglow with life and colour, that fine 
October morning. The evergreens, stretching their dark 
branches half-way across the narrow paths traversed by 
groups of students, touched the spreading boughs of the 
great maples in a friendly manner, as if eager to share 
in the general spirit of comradeship. The night’s frost 
had decked the maples out in glowing tints and they stood 
resplendent against the clear sky in a last blaze of glory. 

The autumn term was well under weigh. The first few 
weeks of intoxication had passed and the students were 
sobering down to a fair appreciation of the work in store 
for them. Yet the sprightly steps on the old gravel walks 
were suggestive of nothing but enthusiasm and vigour. 
On every side rang out gay, laughing voices. From the 
upper campus appeared a group of girls, discussing ex- 
citedly some debatable point on the day’s work. Farther 
on, two young men with Greek testaments under their 
arms were hurrying towards Divinity Hall, past a crowd 
of jovial Science men assembled on the steps of their 
own building. The sound of the cars in the street below 
mingled with the strains of “Old Hundredth” already ris- 
ing from the “Hall” and the yell of the Medicals, 

“Oil! Wine! Whiskey! Rum! 

More Ale ! More Ale ! More Ale !” 

Pushing through a crush of men in the old Arts build- 
ing, pitched to one side, jammed on the other, a tall youth 
57 


58 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

was struggling towards his locker. It was five minutes 
to nine and the junior Latin room was two stories up. 

He reached through the crowd with his key and turned 
the lock. Then, at the first move, wedged himself in, 
abstracted his gown, threw in his cap and a couple of 
books, and locked it up again. The hall full of men 
seemed to be moving in a solid mass towards Philosophy 
as discoursed in the old lecture rooms of the south- 
east wing under the titles of Junior and Senior. Hugh 
Stewart tried to slip corner-wise towards the stairs but 
the luckless folds of his new gown some way got en- 
tangled and the first thing he knew he was straining up 
the stairs while half a dozen men were pulling at his 
tail. 

He turned to remonstrate, angrily, but the grinning 
faces showed such delight at this, that he quickly changed 
his tactics. Giving one prolonged tug forward he sud- 
denly loosened and slid his arms down, letting gown and 
men go tumbling back on the crowd below. 

Two or three of his own year raised a venturesome 
shgut, “Arts ’03 !” — “Arts ’03 !” which was drowned de- 
risively by those below. Then as the bell began to fume 
and tinkle on the wall, the class-rooms swallowed up the 
last stragglers, and Hugh, clearing the second flight three 
steps at a time, came breathless to the dim third story 
even now reverberating to the clarion calls of Nickie. 

“Now, gentlemen, don’t jostle ! There is plenty of time 
to walk in politely. Let the ladies pass in first, gentle- 
men, and don’t stare at them! You’ve seen them often 
enough and you may hope to see them every day. In my 
time ladies weren’t such a common sight in colleges as 
they are now. Oh, no, they were rar-re.” 

A very little man in professorial garb standing on the 
platform of the old Latin room was uttering these words 
in a stentorian voice, amusingly at variance with his 


DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 59 

stature. He thundered unceasingly at the awkward squad 
of freshmen who pitched into the room, even while his 
eyes shone with friendly welcome for the shy freshettes 
bunched together expectantly under the sloping roof, in 
laughing, whispering groups. This was the beginning of 
a new term and the appearance of each successive class 
of plastic minds within the walls of that upper room 
whence had emerged so many “classic” medalists, never 
failed to inspire the grave little Professor with the joy 
which comes with new-discovered territory. 

This junior class was easily first in his regard. Neither 
the Sanskrit lectures which he had the unique honor of 
delivering, nor the classes in final honor Latin where he 
so eloquently held forth, took half so firm a grasp of 
Professor Nicholson’s affections as did this raw material 
which came fresh to his hand each year, from all parts 
of the Dominion, and beyond it. 

And this affection was fully reciprocated. Every fresh- 
man class unanimously and vociferously elected him presi- 
dent of their year, an honour which he acknowledged by 
delivering an unquestionably popular lecture. And each 
individual freshman held as his special friend this pro- 
fessor who would come bookless to class rather than see 
a pupil in want of one, and who would often join some 
student on his homeward walk to give a cheering word 
of encouragement about the work. 

“Nickie,” the students called him. Disrespectful as the 
title might seem, it nevertheless carried with it a sense 
of appreciation and respect which was accorded to few 
in the University. For he had a way of coming very near 
to the minds of his class; seeing their limitations sym- 
pathetically, yet trying in his own bright, irresistible way 
to give them the better point of view, to open out before; 
them further vistas of thought. His tireless zeal for be- 
getting knowledge, his intrepid courage, and, most of all, 


6o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

his never-failing kindliness and humour, evoked unceasing 
admiration from each new class of students. It is true 
that, as the year wore on, his witticisms failed to elicit 
that tremendous pedal applause which greeted them at 
the beginning of the session, but the spring term in- 
variably found the class better able to appreciate those 
high, broad lines of thought which underlay even his 
jocular presentations. 

The class was a large one this morning in late Octo- 
ber. As yet there had been no weeding out of those occa- 
sional who could not hope to purchase salvation in April 
at the cost of an endurance to the end. They were all 
there : scholarship men, matriculants and tutorials, 
crowded together, filling two-thirds of the room, while 
across from them the girls — “the angels,” as Professor 
Nicholson styled them — rustled and scribbled, and cast 
shy glances men-ward. 

“Miss Campbell?” ventured the little Professor, inter- 
rogatively, seizing on one pronounceable name from 
among the heterogeneous slips of paper signed by the 
new students. 

“Present,” responded a girl in the front row of seats. 

“ ' Adsum / you mean, Miss Campbell,” corrected 
Nickie. “This is a Latin class. Kindly remember to use 
the scholastic rejoinder. And this I mean for all of you,” 
he roared, quite unexpectedly. “You,” turning suddenly 
to the men; “what do you mean by laughing as though 
you would have known any better? Every one of you 
is probably far more ignorant than this young lady!” 

“Well, Miss Campbell,” in softened tones, “kindly read 
for me, in Latin, the first few lines of your Agricola, 
by Tacitus, the gr-r-reat historian. The first eight lines, 
if you please.” 

Silence ; then, “I haven’t my text-book yet, Professor. 
I sent for it, but it hasn’t arrived at the bookseller’s.” 


DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 61 

As she spoke Miriam Campbell felt a quick movement 
behind her. A girl with glasses and a pale little face was 
thrusting forward her book, whispering, “Take mine, 
I can look on with some one else.” 

Seeing this, the professor hastily concluded his loud 
denunciation of tardy booksellers, and procrastinating 
students, to listen to the reading of the Latin which was 
given fearlessly enough, though punctuated with many 
mistakes. At the end of the eight lines he bowed his 
profound thanks before turning to deliver an oration to 
the class. What pleased him, he announced, was not so» 
much the success of the undertaking, though that was 
good, very good, as the manner of complying, and the 
voice. “Gentlemen,” said Nickie, impressively, thunder- 
ingly, “you would do well to imitate the style and voice 
of this young lady, not necessarily loud, but clear and 
distinct. For example, / don’t bellow, and yet you all 
hear the smallest syllable to which I give utterance.” 

A burst of applause greeted this sally, which the pro- 
fessor also acknowledged. He seemed to glory in the 
whirlwind and tempest of acclamation under which the 
old Latin room rocked. Indeed, he added no small quota 
to the general disturbance which reigned in that upper 
story every morning. And if his boots had not done 
their best in rendering the floor unsafe from the dancer’s 
standpoint, at least he had not been lacking in dire threats 
as to their powers. It had been handed down from the 
dark ages of college life as an established fact, that the 
brave little Nickie had on one occasion reduced a massive 
and obstreperous down-east Highlander to the verge of 
abject fear by his threat to “g-r-rind him to powder be- 
neath his heel,” and then to “thr-row him out of the 
window as you toss the caber.” Such a combination of 
fates would have acted as a deterrent to the freshness of 
even a more cumbrous specimen, whose size would cer- 


62 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

tainly have dwindled to nothingness before the awful 
sight of professorial prowess. 

It was something other than courage, however, that 
was called for on this particular morning* The profes- 
sor’s patience was being sorely tried. Ever since the class 
began there had been a violent piano-hammering in the 
next room, and the shuffling sounds accompanying it 
plainly told of an informal dance in progress in the girls' 
sanctum. This was a grievance of long standing with 
the little Latin professor, as the girls were well aware. 
But they persisted in indulging themselves until a request 
should actually come for them to stop. 

To-day the noise was unusually distracting. At first 
Professor Nicholson merely acknowledged it by a gallant 
wave of his hand toward the other room, as he murmured, 
'‘Two small feet peep in and out, like mice that fear to 
see the light,” and then proceeded with the translation. 
But as the sounds increased he began to pace up and 
down more rapidly, urging the students to "speak up.” 
"Be like Demosthenes, Mr. Stewart, 'he called across the 
tumult and it fell/ ” 

Volleys of applause from the Junior Latins mingled 
with the rattle- ty bang of the piano, and Nickie’s roar 
of rage, as his patience and gallantry at last giving way, 
he strode over to the folding-doors which separated the 
two rooms. For one dramatic moment he waited, 
knuckles uplifted, his eyes gleaming merrily at the class 
from behind his glasses, and then he rapped, one! two! 
three ! 

There was instant silence. That annual hint was too 
well understood not to be respected. The girls knew that 
nothing short of sheer desperation would ever prompt 
him to put an end to what he gracefully called, "the 
entertaining concert by which we are daily enthralled.” 

Away he marched to the platform again, his gown 


DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 63 

trailing out behind him, an air of conquering majesty in 
his mien, as he resumed his elaborate explanation of a 
knotty passage. “ Obfuscated , is the word you mean, 
Mr. Stewart, the eyes of his mind were obfuscated 
“No, that is not the subjunctive, that is a frank and open- 
hearted indicative. Thank you, Mr. Stewart, your trans- 
lation is most creditable. When I want work well done 
I always call on the Highlanders !” 

The sudden, sharp whirl of the bell announced that 
the Latin class for that day had ended. Nickie closed 
his Tacitus’ Agricola reluctantly. He enjoyed each lec- 
ture to the full. They were no dry-bones of ancient date, 
these Latin lectures. He revelled in the life of Greece 
and Rome as only a classicist of the first rank could do, 
picturing the times and customs so vividly, with such liv- 
ing touches and modern instances, interspersed with quo- 
tations from Milton, Lamb or Shakespeare, that syntax 
retired to the background, and the classical spirit began 
to brood over the young minds which lay open before 
him. 

The students filed past, hilariously, eager to laugh 
themselves out, in the halls. 

“Stewart?” 

“That’s my name.” 

“Are you entering for the sports on University Day ?” 

“I hadn’t thought of it.” 

“Aren’t you going in for any of the runs?” 

“No, I’m too big. I’m better at the heavy work.” 

“The hammer, for instance.” 

“Yes, the hammer, the caber and the ‘56,’ and the shot 
sometimes. Well, you might put me down for the mile.” 

“Good!” He scribbled down the name. “I’m looking 
up all the sports in our year. We want the champion- 
ship. Are there any other Freshie-Sophs like yourself, 
that might enter, do you know?” Then, another idea 


64 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

popping into his head, “Do you fellows subscribe to the 
Journal?” he continued. “Every student ought to take 
it, as that excellent little manual, the handbook, remarks. 
Better put down your name. Only a dollar a year.” 

Hugh hesitated. Dollars were scarce and he knew he 
must retrench on every side to meet the demands. There 
was the gymnasium fee, the Alma Mater, the Arts So- 
ciety, the Year at Home — “I’ll let you know later,” he 
temporised. 

“All right!” the other man answered genially. “Now 
about the sports. I hope our year will put up a good 
fight ” 

“Oh, see here!” said a voice behind. “You’re surely 
not counting on the Sophs for anything remarkable? 
You know Fyfe Boulding is practically champion now.” 

“ ‘Practically’ means practically nothing.” 

“I tell you it will simply be a walk-over for him.” 

“Look now,” a third voice chimed in, “have any of 
you seen the hammer-throwing this morning?” 

Hugh Stewart turned quickly. “I saw a fellow throw 
it yesterday 112 feet by coming around once, and he 
can take the double turn.” 

Some of the men, not so conversant with this depart- 
ment, were impressed. “Are you entering?” they asked. 

“Sure!” said his new acquaintance easily. “Stewart is 
down for the shot, hammer and ‘56’ ; yes, and the caber.” 

“Any of the races?” 

“Oh, I’m not much in those, the hop-step-and-jump, 
perhaps.” 

“Yes, he’s down for the mile and half-mile.” 

“Well, you fellows keep your eyes open,” the other 
man urged. “You’ll see Fyfe Boulding put it all over 
the rest of them.” 

They drifted down the hall, still arguing back and 


DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 65 

forth, their voices lost in the general commotion of the 
space between lectures. 

From the girls’ dressing-room a great hubbub arose. 
Girls of every age and appearance were talking, laugh- 
ing and moving about from locker to table. Space was at 
a premium, especially in the neighbourhood of the look- 
ing-glass, for there had been a breezy walk to college. The 
room, at best but a box-like compartment, was soon taxed 
to its limit and overflowed into Paradise Alley, that part 
of the hall flanked by rows of lockers. 

Miriam Campbell had been pushed to the wall, next 
another freshette. Each was holding Jto a blue calendar 
with one hand and her gown with the other, and en- 
deavouring to catch the wisdom which flowed from the 
lips of a sophomore, discussing courses with an enviable 
repertoire of options. 

To a freshette there was something positively intoxi- 
cating in the easy attitude of that sophomore. She was 
lolling against the wall, her black hair loosely knotted on 
the top of her head, her blue eyes calmly regarding some 
stray students who lingered in the halls for the mail-man. 
She had just finished inscribing her name in bold char- 
acters on the brick coping behind her, and her gown, torn 
in several places, hung loosely off one shoulder. Miriam, 
who had hers carefully pinned in place, watched with a 
fascinated horror as the Soph, proceeded to wipe her pen 
on the red braid of her gown, the while she discoursed 
on the various “Profs.” with an astounding familiarity. 

“Yes,” she said airily, “Nathan is not too bad, but it 
is just as well to have your junior Math, off before you 
come to college. One man I know took eight years to 
get his degree, just because of it. Nathan pulled him 
every time. Yes, a shame, wasn’t it, but the exams, are 
stiff. Oh, yes, I got mine off last spring. Never thought 
he’d let me through for I sloped so many classes. Oh, 


66 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

well, I didn’t do brilliantly, but what’s the difference as 
long as you get it off? You girls ought to wait a year, 
though, before you tackle Junior Philosophy. The Pro- 
fessor doesn’t like too many Freshies in his class and 
the essays are no joke, I can tell you. Yes, I’m taking 
it this year. We had a great lecture yesterday morning 
— ‘Being’ and ‘Becoming.’ My notes are rather jum- 
bled, I wrote so fast. The Professor has a great way of 
mixing you up. They say he means to do it. He furrows 
up your mind in the Junior so that the seed can be sown 
in the Senior. Goodness, that’s the bell.” She broke off 
suddenly, and commenced to pile up her books. “And 
there’s one chap I must speak to.” With that she flew 
down the hall, a whirlwind of black, just in time to accost 
the tutor in Political Economy as he came up the stairs. 

“Isn’t she clever?” Miriam sighed admiringly. “I 
don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to decide on my course.” 

“Oh, this is her second year. I wonder if that’s a pro- 
fessor she’s talking to. I expect so, with those smoked 
glasses. It must be an awful class, that Junior Philos- 
ophy. Do you know there was one man took it, who 
was intending to be a minister, and he lost all his faith 
and religion, in th^ lectures, and had to go into Political 
Science and Law. Say, what’s the fun in the dressing- 
room? Come on in and see!” 

They pushed through a knot of girls, stretching their 
necks to see what all the laughter was about. 

The centre of the tiny room was cleared, and on it, 
facing each other, stood the smallest girls in the college, 
both freshettes. Some of the Sophs, and Juniors had 
arranged a novel form of amusement. One of them, more 
aggressive than the rest, was master of ceremonies. She 
waved her hand towards the two mites. 

“Come on now, both of you! Take a somersault! Yes, 
you can! Of course!” Shouts of laughter drowned the 


DEEP-SEARCH’D STUDY 67 

cries. The ludicrous command which no one seemed to 
take seriously convulsed the other girls. 

“One! Two! Three !” called the assertive Sophomore, 
“Over you go, now!” 

One of the small girls balked, stiffened and snorted. 
She’d see herself do it! 

“Come on !” the others urged hilariously, hugely enjoy- 
ing her indignation. She glared around the laughing ring, 
furious at this publicity. The laughter increased. This 
was fun. 

Then, suddenly and without warning, head over heels, 
glasses and all, on the bare wooden floor of the dressing- 
room, went the other mite, amid the shouts of wonder- 
ment and admiration, and the cheers of the assembled 
girls. 

“It’s the little Jewess. It’s Rachael!” some one called, 
and Miriam beheld a small girl with raven locks and 
Jewish cast of countenance, the very one who had lent 
her the “Tacitus,” scramble up from the centre of the 
room, shake her gown and examine her spectacles, after 
this most astonishing feat. 

“I forgot all about them,” she remarked, “but they’re 
never hurt a bit.” She rubbed them with her gown and 
adjusted them over her long nose, beaming around the 
room with her near-sighted, dark eyes. 

“Isn’t she great !” one of the girls cried. “I never could 
do it. I never thought she would! On that bare floor!” 
They laughed at the sheer bravado of the girl. 

The aggressive Sophomore was hugging her rap- 
turously. “Rachael, you’re all right. Take that from me! 
Shake hands !” She grinned delightedly at the stiff back 
of the stubborn defaulter who was making her way out 
in wrathful silence. “Rachael, you’re a true sport. You’ll 
live to be president of the Minerva. My prophetic soul 
forewarns me. Yes, you will.” 


CHAPTER VI: THE HONOURABLE STOP 


“Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop 
Not to outsport discretion.” 

— Othello , Act II, Sc. 3* 

Light and music and flutter; good-natured jostling 
and smiling apologies; the fragrance of flowers, and, 
afar, the faint aroma of coffee ; everywhere the ceaseless 
hum of eight hundred voices; the Freshmen’s reception 
was in full swing. 

Since seven o’clock the college doors had been opened 
to the guests of the evening, the new students, who 
trooped in dutifully, escorted by gallant seniors. The 
reception committee, wearing blue badges, were every- 
where, encouraging, introducing and adorning each 
Freshette or Freshman with a white carnation. 

From the far end of Convocation Hall came the sound 
of the orchestra, and on the platform the professors’ 
wives who were not patronesses, together with the more 
elderly, city ladies and a few shy girls, had already con- 
gregated. Below, in the hall, introductions were waxing 
fast and furious, and the little white programs slipped 
from hand to hand. Soon the partners began to form 
for the first promenade, from Convocation Hall down to 
the library, through the English room and back. 

On they passed in one unending line, gallant Freshmen 
supporting radiant Freshettes, grey-haired Professors 
escorting their wives’ cousins, eminent divinities with 
sober, senior girls in the inevitable silk waists. Every 
seven minutes, at the sound of a trumpet, a placard, bear- 
68 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 69 

ing the number of the next promenade, would be hoisted 
in the hall by a heated committee-man, then rush, jam, 
crush, to the rendezvous, where after many vicissitudes 
Miss Pink Muslin would be found by Mr. White Tie, 
and away the new couples would march, with fresh com- 
ments on the old topics of conversation, as to the chaste 
colour schemes in the hall, the crowd or the selections by 
the orchestra. 

In one corner of Convocation Hall, just out of the 
immediate tread of the promenaders, sat Sedley Danvers. 
Sedley never missed a Freshman’s reception. Here was 
unexcelled opportunity for character-study; here was fic- 
tion, romance, philosophy. Miriarji’s debut had afforded 
him unqualified entertainment. Yes, white was best for 
Miriam, he had said to himself, as he surveyed her criti- 
cally, holding out her cloak when he had come to call 
for her. “You’ll keep the last number for me, remem- 
ber,” he cautioned her, as she stepped up the wide college 
staircase, her eyes starlike, her cheeks warm with excite- 
ment. This was her first social function away from home. 
Then she had been taken over by the reception commit- 
tee, and Sedley had gone strolling about, himself on the 
lookout for romance. 

Some one’s large grey eyes were watching him from 
behind a pillar. Between the shoulders of a knot of 
admirers some one had caught a glimpse of the dark head 
with its familiar poise, and having determined to attract 
his gaze, Cora Hotchkiss gave her black-lashed eyes full 
play. Even while she rambled lightly on, exchanging 
sallies and vacuous observations with those of her type, 
she had mentally annexed Sedley. 

Gradually he drew nearer, talking with every one he 
met, in his large, interested way. Sedley was not con- 
cerned about filling his programme, as in by-gone college 
days. More for the sake of trying the new pencil than 


70 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

from any need of a reminder he had scribbled Miriam’s 
name down in the lowest corner; so far as he was con- 
cerned, Miriam was the only one in all that jostling 
throng. It was pleasant enough to be in the midst of the 
usual jollity of the familiar scholastic precincts, but the 
prospect of a quiet walk home through the old city park, 
with the little cousin whose ideas of things in general 
fitted in so satis fyingly with his own stirred an undertone 
of a deeper happiness. 

Now the black-lashed, grey eyes stopped his, full and 
square. Dreaming of Miriam, he had wandered right 
into Cora’s mesh. Deep rose gown, black hair, creamy 
throat — Cora made a fascinating picture. Many of the 
older and more serious college girlsi had looked askance 
at her costume in the dressing-room, as she slipped out 
of her evening cloak. It had seemed out of place at a 
reception given by the Y. M. and Y. W. C. A. 

Miss Hotchkiss believed in knowledge for a man. 
She aspired to Sedley Danvers, learning and all. “He’s 
awfully brainy, don’t you know,” she would murmur 
about one of her latest conquests. The brainier the vic- 
tim, the better, so long as she could lead him captive. 
It shed something of a reflected glory upon her to be 
surrounded by clever men. Besides, Sedley Danvers was 
handsome — it didn’t really matter whether a man was 
handsome or not ; some men were so ugly that they were 
captivating; but still it w!as refreshing, once in a while, 
to look upon a perfect Adonis. 

“Are you lost, Mr. Danvers, or were you searching 
for somebody ? I saw your charming sister, Mrs. Ruther- 
ford, captivating one of the old fossils there” — she 
clapped her hand over her mouth — “oh, did anybody 
hear? One of the professors, I mean. She looked per- 
fectly stunning!” 

Sedley shook his head, and smiled one of his dazzling 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 71 

smiles. By common consent the little group of admirers 
dropped away. They knew that Miss Hotchkiss preferred 
to hold the stage alone with a man of Danvers’ sym- 
metrical proportions. “Fossils,” he repeated, “I suppose 
you call us lawyers prehistoric anthropologists!” 

Cora gave a despairing shrug and grimace. “Don’t 
talk of such terrible things to me, please! I felt the air 
in that dressing-room absolutely thick with knowledge. 
Those college girls have their learning sticking out all 
over them like burrs. It’s not comfortable to go too near. 
It pricks.” 

“I thought you were going to say it sticks Sedley 
was beginning to enjoy the repartee. 

“No, thank you! Not for me! Not that kind! It’s 
too sure of itself. Isn’t this a crush? I’m nearly wilted.” 

Sedley took the hint. “There’s a seat over here,” he 
said, piloting her, “on the side of the platform, where 
our toes won’t be trodden on by those conscientious prom- 
enaders. They keep at it as relentlessly as if moving a 
great treadmill.” 

“Well, isn’t it funny? There’s one man that nearly 
convulsed me. He’s got great boots like a farmer’s, and 
his trousers are so short that you can actually see his red 
socks, and they are red, mind you.” 

“Probably he is a farmer.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he must be. He couldn’t be anything 
else with those boots.” 

“Are you going to like Kingston ?” Sedley asked, turn- 
ing full to her. 

“Oh, well, of course, it isn’t Ottawa, and one misses 
The House, and all that, you know. But there’s a rather 
smart set here, and there’s always something going on, 
and I’m really so busy between one thing and another 
that I don’t give myself time to think of Ottawa, dear 
old Ottawa. Dad gets positively blue for it all, some- 


72 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

times. But, oh, well, what’s the use? I tell him to make 
the best of things, and there’s a jolly crowd here, too, 
once you get to know them.” 

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The endless line of prome- 
naders was passing down and turning off and passing 
down again. Sedley turned his head abruptly, as a cer- 
tain white dress caught his eye. Yes, there was Miriam 
coming, all smiles and energy, stepping away bravely by 
the side of a strapping, curly-headed youth, who looked 
as serious as though he were actually working out a prob- 
lem in Conic Sections. 

“And is it Chursty Ian Bhain you’re meaning?” he 
was asking as they came nearer. 

“Yes, I called her Christy, but that wouldn’t distin- 
guish her with so many Christies around. Does she still 
smoke ?” 

Cora Hotchkiss turned quickly. She hardly expected 
a question like that here. They were close by the edge 
of the platform, and Miriam, catching sight of her cousin, 
flashed him one of her inner smiles. Her face flushed 
the instant after when she saw Cora Hotchkiss’s rose- 
coloured figure perched up beside him. 

Sedley sent an answering smile after her ruffliy white 
back. “Who’s that she has annexed, I wonder?” he 
queried, leaning round the palms. “There’s a good deal 
of him, anyway.” 

“Is that your kid cousin? Pauline told me she was 
coming to college. It’s a great joke to them all at home, 
but I daresay she is smart.” 

Sedley straightened up, smiling. “She certainly is,” he 
said, and his eyes following her around the room were 
so bright, that Cora Hotchkiss found it high time to 
change the subject. 

They were going to sound the trumpet for the next 
promenade. In her excitement Miriam almost tripped 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 73 

over Elizabeth, tall and radiant, chatting blithely with 
one of the tutors, while, behind her, Tom, her next part- 
ner, smilingly awaited his turn. 

“Are you having a good time?” Elizabeth’s eyes shone 
down on the younger girl. “You look as sweet as a 
flower,” she whispered, squeezing her cousin’s hand. 
“Whom do you have for your next promenade, dear?” 

Miriam’s colour rose. “Oh, you wouldn’t know him,” 
she temporised hastily. Not for worlds would she admit 
that her next number was a blank. Nobody at all; oh, 
the shame of it ! Elizabeth and Tom would offer to spend 
it with her and she knew they wanted to go off for a 
chat by themselves in the cosy corner of the mathematics 
room. They were so very bride-and-groomy. Tom was 
smiling at her in his kind, intimate way, as though he 
knew all about the white place opposite the next prom- 
enade, where you were supposed to discuss the college 
yell, unless you were daring enough to bring the subject 
nearer home. Tom was even glancing around at the 
group of men who seemed to have drawn blanks, too, 
and would gladly have had so ruffly a freshette to pass 
the time with. 

Miriam clenched her programme. Nobody should see 
the inside of that. 

“Why, hullo, Miriam !” said a voice at her elbow. “I 
couldn’t think who the stunning girl was !” 

If a bevy of angels had suddenly come to her aid, 
Miriam could not have been more relieved. A moment 
before she had felt herself stranded. And here was her 
escort provided. In her relief the fact that it was her 
despised cousin Fyfe was overlooked. It was an escort 
that Miriam most desired at the moment. Later she 
might regret this temporising. But now she looked up 
at him so pleasantly that Elizabeth and Tom turned away 
unnoticed, perplexity in their smiles. They had not 


74 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

thought young Boulding one of Miriam’s type, related 
though they might be. His being a Senior was no doubt 
an attraction, still 

“May I have the pleasure of a number?” he was ask- 
ing in his indolent way. “Perhaps you could have mercy 

on me for this one. I am late and consequently ” 

He showed his programme, blank. Fyfe Boulding in eve- 
ning dress was attractive and his manner bewilderingly 
easy to Miriam whose sense of propriety had been hurt 
by the gauckerie of jovial youths offering to “change 
cards” with her, or to “write down their names on her 
slate.” Panoplied though she was with the newly-ac- 
quired notion of those rough diamonds which University 
life discovered, she had nevertheless writhed inwardly 
when one worthy gallant, on being presented to her, 
queried, “Have you filled your card? Well, I have! 
You’d better hurry up or you’ll be out of it,” and passed 
on to exchange his pleasantries elsewhere. 

Fyfe’s blank card made it easy for her to say, “Why 
yes, I can give you this number. I have it free.” 

“I was born lucky,” he rejoined smilingly, and offered 
his arm. “Can’t we get out of this crowd? What do you 
say to a turn upstairs? It’s cooler there.” He skilfully 
piloted her through, and they were in the upper fiat 
before Miriam could object. 

The hall was dimly lighted and quite deserted, but 
from the room at the far end chinks of light appeared. 
As they came nearer a faint sound of music could be 
heard, but it was muffled by the movement inside. At 
the signal of a double rap, given by her cousin, the door 
was cautiously opened. 

It was the old Minerva room, the special retreat of the 
lady students. Miriam had already made the acquaintance 
of its dim, inviting quarters under the slanting roof, with! 
its little dormer-windows looking far down over the tree- 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 75 

tops to the deep blue of the lake. Many an afternoon she 
had shut herself in here, away from the lonesomeness of 
the sunshine, in with the tattered magazines on the old 
haircloth settle. 

To-night the room was transformed. Curtains were 
hung across the windows ; the piano, dragged to one side, 
was tinkling merrily, and over the old matting went the 
flying feet of a score of dancers. The girls she hardly 1 
knew; most of them were city girls, there by special invi- 
tation. The men were strangers to her. 

Miriam turned to her escort in stupefaction. “Why, 
I — don’t understand. I thought they didn’t allow danc- 
ing at the Freshman’s reception. Isn’t it given by the 
Y. M. C. A.?” she blurted out. 

Fyfe checked a quick laugh. “Not downstairs,” an- 
swering her first question. “We would be in the way of 
the active promenaders. But some of the dancing-fellows 
thought this would be a nice, quiet place. It’s an abom- 
inable floor, but we might try a round. You dance, of 
course?” 

“Oh, yes,” Miriam said hastily; “I like dancing.” But 
as she spoke the old dislike of this cousin seized her. He 
had brought her here in a rather underhand way. She 
hesitated, flushing and frowning. Fyfe glanced from her 
bright cheeks to her slim, white figure and down to the 
slippers tapping time on the old drugget. College was 
certainly bringing her on. She wasn’t half bad-looking. 
He was eager to be off. 

In the midst of the gayest of music, charmed by the 
catchy movement, the men were emphasising their ap- 
proval with their feet, not realising how much they were 
increasing a noise which should have been repressed. 
They were carried away by the enjoyment of the dance 
and kept up their applause, until suddenly a thundering 
knock on the door startled every one into silence. 


76 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

In a moment it was repeated and the voice of the 
Y. M. C. A. president demanded that the door be opened 
at once. 

Still no response. Then came the order, “All right, 
fellows, break it in!” and a fusillade of thrusts and kicks, 
a storm of rushing, wrenching body-blows began. The 
girls huddled together by the dormer windows laughing 
nervously. The men piled chairs up against the door. 
Then four or five rushed to drag the piano forward to 
strengthen the barricade. But before they could push it 
to place, in fell the door with a mighty crash, a score 
of men with it. 

The dancers started forward to crowd out the others, 
but the onrush of the invaders was so determined that 
the opposing parties closed a plain hand-to-hand fight. 
Back and forth they wrestled. Their smothered exple- 
tives mingled with hurried shouts from without. Belated 
warriors, breathing out threatenings, were dashing down 
the hall. On to the scene of battle! The girls, horrified 
at the outcome of the affair, crowded back farther into 
the room, some of them on the verge of hysteria. 

Fyfe Boulding was the first to break away. That look 
of misery on Miriam’s face! — “I say, you fellows, cut it 
out! We’ll settle this later. Let the ladies go downstairs.” 

At the word an aisle was cleared among the debris 
and, though some of the fighters were loth to desist, the 
temporary lull in hostilities enabled the girls to escape to 
the halls. The stairs were blocked with people who had 
gathered at the noise of conflict, and it was with some 
difficulty that they could make their way through. The 
whisper ran along that these were the dancers and every 
one pushed back, watching them curiously, and murmur- 
ing their names as they filed down. 

Miriam was one of the last to appear. She was sick 
at heart and miserably aware of the publicity. The whole 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 77 

affair had been so sudden that it still seemed a bad 
dream, and the deceit practised upon her added nothing 
to her self-exoneration. 

At the bottom of the stairs stood a group of men, 
scrutinising the girls. When Miriam appeared, they 
seemed puzzled. She was new in the college. As for 
Miriam, she would rather have faced fire than have 
passed through that group. But no escape ! And there 
was Hughie Stewart. Well, the Cape Breton people 
would hear of it. She dropped her eyes and turned her 
head aside as she passed close by him. 

One of her own year girls greeted her from the door 
of Convocation Hall in round-eyed, virtuous amazement. 
“Were you in that bunch, Miriam Campbell ?” 

Miriam stepped past without answering. She knew 
they looked after her, that there were Seniors among 
them, that she would be marked from this time. Far 
better to have sat out that number all alone in the de- 
serted rendezvous! 

Hot of heart, sore with shame, the girl sped down the 
wide staircase, through the quiet halls, and into the big 
dressing-room, shrouded with wraps. First her long coat, 
then her scarf, adjusted with shaking fingers. To escape 
before this next number with Sedley! Out she hurried, 
into the hall. There was some one coming down the 
stairs. Had he seen her? Yes, he was beside her as she 
reached the door, and pulled it open. Outside a cab or 
two were standing, the drivers tramping up and down 
together, in the frosty, Autumn night. The carriage 
lamps sent long streaks of yellow light down through 
the evergreens of the campus, but beyond them there was 
darkness. 

“Where were you going?” Sedley asked her, thrusting 
his hands deep into his pockets and facing round at her. 

“Home. I mean to the boarding-house.” 


78 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“All alone? Without telling me?” 

Miriam nodded. 

They walked on in silence. The little board walk wound 
down through the trees. At the end there was the campus 
gate, and the great arc light swinging above at the cross- 
ing. 

He took a full look at her as they passed underneath. 
“I was promising myself this time with you all evening, 
Miriam,” he said reproachfully. “It would have been a 
keen disappointment to have found you gone.” 

“I was dancing. I mean I was just going to,” Miriam 
burst out, unable longer to withstand. “Fyfe Boulding 
took me up, but I never knew what was going on.” 

“I saw you,” Sedley answered. “I’m glad you didn’t 
dance with him. The row came just in time.” 

“I can’t stand him! I don’t care if he is a cousin!” 
she stormed. 

“Certainly you don’t care,” he soothed her. “Cousins 
are always a rock of offence, created to be railed at, and 
run away from.” 

The sudden relief which surged in her heart broke 
down her reserve. “This is our number, anyway, Sedley, 
the end of it,” she said demurely. 

He threw back his head and laughed. “That was why 
you were hurrying so, was it? You were rushing out 
into the darkness to find me. You thought I must be put- 
ting in time with the trees in the campus until it came 
off.” He laughed repeatedly. 

“You might not have been worse off with the trees,” 
she retorted. “There’s some stability about them any- 
way.” 

He laughed harder than ever at that. Miriam, spiteful, 
was a fresh treat for him. Besides, he enjoyed her little 
show of pique towards Cora. 

“I think I saw you promenading with an oak tree, 


THE HONOURABLE STOP 79 

Miriam,” he said wickedly. “Or was that a Douglas fir? 
There was quite a bunch of foliage at the top!” 

Miriam laughed softly, her resentment forgotten. “It 
is too thick, isn’t it? Most of the boys in Cape Breton 
are like that. They seem to have more curls than they 
know what to do with. Do you think he is good-looking, 
Sedley?” 

“Undoubtedly. And he’ll be better-looking every year ; 
and college always helps a chap of that type. Brings the 
best out of him.” 

Miriam mused over this in silence. They were turn- 
ing up her own street now, quite deserted, and so quiet 
after the fitful fever of the crowd. 

“I wish Hugh Stewart could talk,” she said irrele- 
vantly. 

“Doesn’t he?” 

“Oh, but so slowly and meaning every word. I like 
something smart and brisk.” 

“Address him in Gaelic,” her cousin suggested. 

“My Gaelic seems to amuse him vastly,” she rejoined, 
disquieted at the remembrance. “Sedley, what does ‘laoch 
mu cridhe ’ (darling of my heart) mean? Isn’t it, ‘I’m 
shivering like a calf’ ( laogh air crith ) ? I said that to 
Hugh to-night in the cold Mathematics room, and he 
looked at me so queerly. Then I translated it for him, 
and he just shouted with laughter and kept making me 
say it over and over.” 


CHAPTER VII : TILL IT BE MORROW 


“Good night, good night : parting is such sweet sorrow, 
Then I shall say good night till it be morrow.” 

Romeo and Juliet , Act II, Sc. 2. 

Sedley laughed to himself as he walked down the 
street. He had an inkling of Gaelic, just sufficient to 
recognise that Miriam had compromised herself with the 
ingenuous Celt. Not so ingenuous, either, judging by 
the way he had capitalised her linguistic faux pas. And 
then the picture he had drawn of her cavalier was really 
capital. A Douglas fir ! Actually it was exactly like him. 
What did a man want with so much hair, anyway! Sed- 
ley sauntered down through the park, hands deep in his 
pockets, head thrown back, and throat vibrating with 
laughter. The stars winked at him through the branches. 
Had the promenading gone to his head? Promenading! 
The poor youngsters! And their slippers bewitched so 
that they could scarcely control them. They were for 
flying off with the owners, whether or no, just like the 
fairy-tale of the red shoes, which danced the girl to 
the mischief and all, once she had donned them. Those 
promenades were only provocative, in any case. 

Poor Miriam led into evil by the facile Fyfe Boulding! 
Sedley knew him well. Hadn’t his first case caught Bould- 
ing in its dragnet along with a score of other college 
sports? A man couldn’t live on his sinews forever, any 
more than on his fat, and it was one thing to pole-vault 
yourself into public notice, and another to keep steady 
enough to hold it. Miriam did not begin to know him, 
80 


TILL IT BE MORROW 81 

cousin though he was. Of course, Boulding was the very 
type of man to covet the acquaintance of smooth brown 
heads and trusting eyes. Well, she would have to make 
her own distinctions now, away from Aunt Campbell and 
home uniformities. And a mighty good thing for her! 
Sedley smiled grimly in the darkness. A mighty good 
thing ! 

“Hullo! Where do you think you’re going?” He 
brought up suddenly with the bump which the other man 
gave him. 

“Oh, that’s too bad!” said Hugh Stewart, straighten- 
ing himself contritely and rubbing his own forehead. “I 
wasn’t seeing where I was going!” 

Sedley threw back his head and laughed immoderately. 
“Nor caring either, I guess! You college fellows are 
just the same as in my day — plunging off for a walk to 
rest your nerves and leaving the poor girls to find their 
own way home.” Then, on a friendly impulse holding 
out his hand — “Excuse the irregularity of the introduc- 
tion — Danvers is my name — you know a cousin of mine 
— Miriam Campbell. And aren’t you Mr. Stewart?” 

Hugh shook hands heartily. He was lonely, the festive 
scene now over, and this friendly meeting touched a 
responsive chord in his warm nature. 

“How do you do?” he said readily, and industriously 
got into step with the other man, as they walked through 
the park. “I’m after knowing Miss Campbell since last 
Summer. And will she be your cousin?” 

“She both will be and is,” Sedley returned, unable td 
resist poking fun. “Well, if you’ve known her only since 
last Summer, your pleasures are before you.” 

“Is that so?” Hugh revolved this in his mind a brief 
space. Finally, and with some effort, he brought out what 
was worrying him. 

“And will the ladies be waiting for us then?” he asked 


82 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

diffidently. “Will your cousin be looking ” he glanced 

anxiously towards the far-off lights of the college twin- 
kling through the trees. 

“Oh, Miriam’s safe in her nest by this time,” Sedley 
assured him. “I saw to that myself. I couldn’t trust her 
to any one else.” Then, fancying the other man hurt, he 
hastened to add, “We’re great chums, even if we are 
related. My people come from Cape Breton, Mr. Stewart ; 
all my mother’s people. She was a Campbell.” 

The bars were down now. The clan spirit had done 
its work. It had set these two men, contrasts as they 
were, on the same road. 

Before they knew it they were striking out King Street, 
following the winding sidewalk, past old factories and 
dwelling-houses into the further gloom of the night, the 
great lake their mysterious, unbidden companion all the 
way. Through the darkness it seemed like some wide ex- 
panse inviting exploration, and enlarging instead of limit- 
ing their road. Sedley’s face turned constantly to it as 
he talked. “It fascinates me, that lake,” he said, suddenly 
interrupting his own reminiscences of Nova Scotia. “It 
seems to be calling to me and then warning me back. 
Are you ever visited by such portents?” 

Hugh turned earnestly toward the older man. Recol- 
lections of boyish terrors on lonely glens, of dread of 
fire-balls and evil spirits chased through his mind. He 
remembered the story of his grandfather wrestling with 
what he believed to be the evil one — a neighbour dressed 
in character. And the more the neighbour would shout, 
“It’s I, Alastair!” the more Alastair, firm in his belief 
as to the identity of the “donas” (devil), would shout 
back, “I know it’s you !” and belabour him the more. 

All this would have been a rich treat for Sedley, roman- 
tic and mystical as his Celtic forefathers. But to Hugh 
it was so much superstition to be shaken off as soon as 


TILL IT BE MORROW 83 

possible. He was still too near boyhood days to see in 
perspective their dramatic charm. Besides, he was diffi- 
dent in the society of the other man whom he knew as 
a brilliant graduate and promising lawyer. And so there 
drifted past one of those chances of rare intercourse 
which a man so often misses through reticence or obtuse- 
ness. 

Instead, he answered plainly, “There’s a lake Fm after 
seeing every day at home. It’s an awful pretty lake, the 
big Bras d’Or.” 

“But you brought yourself to leave it?” Sedley en- 
couraged. He was curious to discover the mainspring in 
the young man’s character. 

“Oh, well, yes,” was the answer given in a matter-of- 
fact and quiet tone. “I was always meaning to go to 
college. My uncle was always saying I would take after 
him.” 

“He’s a minister,” Sedley supplemented, as a matter 
of course. Most of these Highland Scotch boys had that 
as their great objective. 

“Well, no,” said Hugh, apologetically. He shared his 
people’s reverence for the office of a minister. “He’s 
after being a judge.” 

“That’s interesting,” was Sedley’s comment. “Sydney, 
did you say?” 

“Well, no,” said Hugh, once more reluctant. That cer- 
tainly was the centre of the universe. Would any one be 
familiar with this other place? “He’s in Regina,” he 
brought up bravely. 

“Regina,” the other man repeated, as who would say, 
what took him to such an outlandish spot? Aloud he 
said, “I’ve taught near there. It’s on the flattest side of 
the pancake. No trees, no lake, no real one I mean, just 1 
prairie. Whatever made them choose such a spot for 
congregating human souls and bringing up little children 


84 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

passes my knowledge. Oh, yes, I know they’re trying to 
fix it up, plant trees and all that, and it will be better 
with time, but why not take what Nature offers ready- 
made? We have such beauty spots all about us. Just 
look!” 

They had stopped on the hill overlooking Portsmouth 
and the grey bulk of the Penitentiary buildings loomed 
out of the darkness ahead. But his guide pointed Hugh 
beyond these, up past the clustering houses and the little 
church, to the hill and then away out across the water. 

“It’s great!” said Hugh enthusiastically. He drew a 
deep breath and squared his big shoulders. The arc light 
swinging above them showed his features as if chiselled. 
Sedley’s quick eye caught the beauty of the man and 
included him in the whole prospect. 

“You’ve seen finer sights in Cape Breton, no doubt,” 
Sedley remarked, suggestively. 

“Oh, well, yes,” Hugh returned. The fact was too 
patent for elucidation. 

“The scenery is very much like that of the Scottish 
Highlands,” Sedley suggested. 

“I’ve been hearing so. I never was there.” 

“Densely-wooded mountains where a man might easily 
be lost, and a prey to wild animals, even near his own 
home? Is that an exaggeration ?” 

“Well, no, indeed it is not. It’s true enough,” Hugh 
returned, roused at last. “You would have heard of the 
Reverend Roderick MacKenzie, the minister we had be- 
fore Reverend John Farquharson. He was awful proud 
of his shooting. Well, one day he went out to the moun- 
tain back of the manse after partridge. And when he 
did not return at dark Mistress MacKenzie became appre- 
hensive.” — Hugh’s book-English was delightful to the 
other man. “She informed the neighbours and we got up 


TILL IT BE MORROW 85 

a search party and looked all night and never found 
him.” 

“He was lost!” Sedley exclaimed. 

“Oh, well, no, we found him two days after. He was 
following the stream down to Trout Brook.” 

“Following the stream?” 

“Yes, just so. Well, but he was the tired man!” 

“And the thankful man, I’ll warrant!” 

“Indeed then, he was not thankful. He was very 
angry.” 

“Angry? Why in the name of creation should the 
man be angry?” 

“Oh, well, he did not want us to find him lost.” 

“Oh, I see!” Light was dawning for Sedley on the 
mysteries of the Highland pride. “Like the Indian found 
by the scouting party. He would never admit his des- 
peration — Tndian not lost, wigwam lost/ It would be, 
‘Minister not lost, manse lost.’ ” He threw back his head 
in a peal of laughter. 

“But,” — recovering himself quickly lest any part be 
missed — “what would he say when you came on him ? Did 
he look spent? Played out, I mean? How did you find 
him? Did he see you coming?” 

“Well, no, he heard us.” 

“Hallooing, do you mean?” 

“Oh, well, yes, shouting and yelling and blowing the 
cow-horns and beating the pans.” 

“My conscience, what a band! And he didn’t like it, 
you say?” 

“No. We called, ‘Is that you, then, Mr. MacKenzie?' 
He was sitting on a fallen tree by the stream, bathing 
his feet, his gun beside him and a partridge with it. He 
looked up just as dark as thunder.” 

‘“And who were you thinking to see?’ he said. 

“ ‘Maybe just the bear,’ one of the boys told him, cross 


86 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

at the proud and spiteful way of him, after all our search- 
ing and tramping — ‘And Mistress MacKenzie is dis- 
appointed at your not returning and she has gone out 
of her mind.’ ” 

‘‘You’d have thought that would have fetched him,” 
Sedley hazarded, quite aware of the customary exaggera- 
tion. 

“Well then, yes, wouldn’t you? But it didn’t!” said 
Hugh wrathfully. “He was angrier than ever, I do be- 
lieve. He was angry at her for doing it and he was 
angry at us for finding him, and he was angry at the 
woods for being in his way!” 

Sedley went off in another volley of laughter. “The 
only one he was reconciled to at that rate would be the 
little partridge. It would serve as a peace offering to 
his demented wife.” 

“Indeed, then, she never got it, the creature ! The boys 
just took it. They auctioned it at the pie social. It was 
a bird whatever.” 

“I suppose you could hardly call it a ‘bag,’ ” Sedley 
mused, playing with the fancy in evident delight. “It 
served as a link, anyway, between minister and people.” 

“There was no link possible,” said Hugh shrewdly. 
“It was not until the Reverend John Farquharson came 
to us that we knew happiness.” 

“Did he have the Gaelic, too ?” Sedley put the question 
largely to show that he knew the proper form. The un- 
initiated would have said, “Did he know Gaelic?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed, but we would have loved him, what- 
ever. Twice every week I went to the manse for lessons 
in Latin and Greek. I was teaching the school and I 
was preparing for college, and it was he who made it 
possible for me at all.” 

“I often wondered how so many of the boys found 
their way up here from Nova Scotia.” 


87 


TILL IT BE MORROW 

“We only followed Geordie.” 

“You knew Principal Grant, then, before you came.” 

“We used to see him in Cape Breton in the summer. 
He preached great sermons. We all wanted to go to 
'Big Grant’s' college.” 

Sedley reviewed this in silence. He seemed to see the 
little church as he had known it in boyhood days, long 
and bare, to feel himself in those uncomfortable pews 
again, to catch a whiff of fragrant summer breeze through 
the open door. And then he pictured on that bald plat- 
form the arresting figure, the compelling gaze, the ring- 
ing tones. Who would not follow thee, bonny Prince 
Charlie ? 

“I must turn down here,” said Hugh. 

Sedley started and looked about him, pulled out his 
watch and started again. Then held out his hand. 

“Will you accept my thanks for one of the most de- 
lightful midnight rambles a man could conceive of?” he 
asked, his radiant smile dazzling Hugh even in the un- 
certain light of the incandescent swinging above them. 

“I have enjoyed it, too,” Hugh answered simply. 


CHAPTER VIII: FORTUNE’S THREATENING 
EYE 

“When Fortune means to men most good 
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.” 

— King John, Act III, Sc. 4. 

“On the old Ontario strand, my boys, 

Where Queen’s forever more shall stand. 

For has she not stood 

Since the time of the flood 
On the old Ontario strand.” 

The grand stand was filling rapidly. Every moment 
new hats appeared above the turn of the steep little stair- 
case, sometimes alone, sometimes escorted by those of 
the male persuasion. As the owners walked along the 
front of the stand, expectantly eyeing the serried ranks 
above to discover a possible gap, they were gaily hailed 
by cronies to right and left. No man accompanying a 
girl went unheralded. 

“So now I’m in the city 
Where the girls are so pretty.” 

the students chanted, or, becoming personal, “That’s 
right, Tommy,” “Good boy, enjoying yourself? Don’t 
blush!” Spirited was the girl and heroic the temper of 
the man who could brave such sallies. 

And now from the bleachers rises the old slogan, 
“Of/ thigh m. Banrighinn gu brath!” and out on the 
green oval below file the competitors, scant as to gar- 
ments, but muscular as to legs and arms, which protrude 

88 


FORTUNE’S THREATENING EYE 89 

from the protecting coat thrown over jersey and trunk 
hose, as who should say, “Here’s where we come in !” 

There is a little knot of trainers and starters and spe- 
cial friends mixed up with the athletes, together with 
two or three of the younger and more vigorous profes- 
sors. And they all stand around talking and examining 
their watches and measuring the ground and talking 
again, until with the sultriness, and the new fall suits 
and the flight of time, every one begins to fidget. The 
programme of events has been read half a dozen times 
an<7 all the advertisements mixed up with it, when at last, 
at last, the first number is called off. 

“Who’s that in the old rose running-suit?” Miriam 
Campbell, in a group of girls, laughed as she put the ques- 
tion, for the garments were so ridiculously abbreviated 
and the legs so skinny. 

“Fyfe Boulding,” said some one, importantly. “Isn’t 
he perfectly splendid?” 

“He’s horribly thin,” said another. “I should think 
he’d be ashamed of his life!” 

“Of his legs in any case.” 

But evidently he wasn’t, for he proceeded to flourish 
those lanky extremities in a sort of twinkling caper, 
partly for exercise, partly from sheer exuberance of spir- 
its. It needed but this to rouse the enthusiasm of his 
supporters. 

“What’s the matter with Fyfe Boulding?” they vigor- 
ously chorused. 

“Matter enough with those legs,” murmured the cyni- 
cal girl, while the bleachers gave back the frenzied assur- 
ance, 

“He’s all right 1” 

Miriam’s face was hot. Fyfe Boulding! She had not 
seen him since the night of the Freshman’s reception. 
The fiasco in the Minerva room had been the sensation 


9 o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

of a college week. There was talk of courting the delin- 
quents and forcing them to foot the bills for damages 
which the Senate had levied on the student body. Rela- 
tions were strained between those who belonged to the 
Y. M. C. A. and those who did not. The girls came in 
for a liberal share of censure, especially those city girls 
who were accused of trying to run things. Miriam’s case 
was something of an anomaly. Apparently she was a stu- 
dious individual with little idea of insurrection. The gen- 
eral conclusion was that she had been led, but no one 
seemed to know just by whom. 

Miriam was supremely thankful. She made no com- 
ment when his name was mentioned, but she followed 
the figure in the old-rose running suit keenly. 

The men were lining up for the mile run, half a dozen 
or more. They toed the line, straightened their legs, then 
crouched. 

“Bing!” went the gun. Away and away they sped. 
Round after round. 

“Boulding!” the shout rose triumphantly. “Fyfe 
Boulding!” He is not leading, but neck to neck with 
another. 

“Boulding!” “Boulding!” He has reached the line — 
but second. The cheer wavers, dies, is renewed, but this 
time a new name strikes the ear. “Stewart!” “Stewart!” 

The Sophomores are doubling up and down, yelling. 
The Freshmen are hurrahing. There is a furious flutter 
of yards of college ribbons from the Freshette bunch in 
the grand-stand. Hugh Stewart is striding back, flushed 
with victory. He is as much surprised as the rest and 
laughs when one of the men claps him on the shoulders. 
Boulding, in a crowd of subdued supporters, saunters 
after. He can afford to let the youngster puff himself a 
little. 

They are gathering for the next event, throwing the 


FORTUNE’S THREATENING EYE 91 

discus. Stewart is entering this, too. The men regard 
him with interest. These new fellows have possibilities. 
Then of a sudden they have spied their old favourite, a 
Lanark stalwart. He swings on to the green like a High- 
land chief, treading the heather with the easy stride of 
a victor, while the students chant their old-time ditty, 

“He came — from Lanark, 

Won fame — for Lanark. 

Great game! Great name! 

Lanark !” 

“He’s sure of the championship,” said one of the men 
behind Miriam. 

“All nonsense !” another rejoined. “Fyfe Boulding will 
make a clean sweep. He may be strong on the heavy 
work but Boulding is all-round.” 

“Good shot! Good shot!” the cry rang out below. 
Lanark’s hero had made the first throw. 

“There’s Stewart of the Freshmen year,” cried some- 
body. “He puts up a stiff fight.” 

Miriam leaned out to watch him throw. A good many 
eyes followed hers. The tall figure crowned with a hand- 
some head, and the whole-souled interest he showed in 
each event, his unbridled enthusiasm and native grace 
won for Hugh Stewart a host of new friends. Miriam’s 
thoughts went back to Trout Brook. How cool it would 
be there this Indian Summer afternoon! How pleasant 
to sit lazily under the alder bushes and watch Hughie 
land the trout! She laughed as she noticed how Hughie 
was included in her picture. He seemed to fit into and 
round out the scene. She was not alone in her admira- 
tion. All the girls around were watching him. The 
Lanark hero was scoring as far as mere shot-putting 
was concerned, but Hugh Stewart’s score stood high in 
another direction. 


92 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Lanark for the final try. He steps into the seven- foot 
circle and with his left arm extended makes two or three 
threatening swings with his right, as if having designs 
on the grand-stand, the discus gripped firm in his tensely- 
stretched fingers. Then, like a whirling Dervish, he spins 
around in the circle, and with the momentum gained, 
enhanced by his last ounce of strength as a parting gift, 
flings it forward. The discus cuts horizontally through 
the air and, gliding along the path of least resistance, 
lands a hundred and twelve feet from the point of de- 
parture, lying spent where it struck. 

The students go wild. There come cheering, shouts, 
caps are waved and out rolls the old rhetorical question, 

“What’s the matter with Lanark?” 

“That’s a record-breaker/’ said one of the men, lean- 
ing down from behind. “He scores five points by that, 
you know. Fyfe will have to look up. Stewart is second.” 

The girl below nodded, smiling. “I wouldn’t have had 
him make an inch less. He looked so set on it, and he 
spun around so fast.” 

It is the half-mile race now. Hugh Stewart and Fyfe 
Boulding are again to the fore. Lining up — “Are you 
ready?” — Click! — Flying feet — on and on. — “Boulding!” 
“Boulding!” “Good boy, Boulding!” — “Keep it up, 
Stewart!” — “That’s right!” “Keep it up!” “You’ve got 
it, Stewart!” No, Fyfe Boulding has it with Hugh a 
good second. And again the cheers ring out. 

The afternoon is wearing on. The Lanark hero and 
Fyfe Boulding have not carried all before them. Hugh 
Stewart is running Boulding hard for all-round honours. 

“The Freshmen are putting up a good fight. Look at 
Stewart there! See the length of his step? That’s mag- 
nificent ! Boulding managed the hop all right but his step 
was too short. Man, what a jump! The fellow’s made 


FORTUNE’S THREATENING EYE 93 

of India rubber. Boulding again! That’s better, better! 
Pretty work! Pretty work! Now, Stewart! Good! 
Good ! Splendid ! He’s made it ! Stewart !” 

Hugh’s last jump had landed him clean beyond the 
marks of his two rivals. 

For the first time Hugh hears his own name figuring 

in that famous query, “What’s the matter ” It swells 

up and soars aloft in the still, Autumn afternoon, 
drowned by a derisive, answering cry from the Senior 
men. 

Freshmen, Freshmen, verdant green, 

Tell me what you’ve heard and seen? 

Nothing heard and seen still less, 

Very verdant, I confess. 

It is the hurdle-race, the last decisive event. 

“Have you entered for this, Stewart?” One of the 
officials lays a hand across his shoulders. 

“No, I’m sorry I didn’t.” 

“Have a try in any case. You’re not winded?” 

“No! I’m as fit as ever.” 

“In with you then. Show them a thing.” He slaps him 
on the shoulders. 

It is an exciting event. Those who have scored on 
the runs and those whose forte has been the jump are 
now faced with combination work in these two lines. 
Boulding, Stewart and two or three others are ready 
for the start. Every one leans forward expectantly. The 
grand-stand has thinned out a little, but those remaining 
are keenly intent. The championship depends on this last 
race. Now ready, boys, steady! 

Suddenly a new note is struck. The students are rising 
in a body. Some one who has just returned from an 
ocean voyage in search of fleeting health is seen far down 
the green. Miriam, keyed up for the last essay, feels a 


94 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

thrill, a tremor, an indescribable flood of loyalty sweep 
through her heart, as that body of sound swells out, 

“Rule, rule, Geordie! 

Geordie rules the boys. 

Oh, what a happy man is Geordie !” 

A tall figure, accompanied by one of the professors, 
is slowly approaching. Grey-haired, keen-eyed, scholarly, 
his quick, penetrating glance falls here and there, noting 
each student on the way, speaking to him by name, the 
while he bends his head to listen closely to what his com- 
panion is saying. His left hand is drawn through his 
friend’s. On his right there is a glove. 

The Principal! Hugh Stewart, his muscles taut with 
strain, shakes in his running shoes. Is Geordie to witness 
his efforts? Indeed, the Principal has no intention of 
marring the contest. No one is more keenly interested 
in sport than he. He steps aside quietly, and the signal 
is given. 

“That’s right, Boulding!” “Over with you!” “Stew- 
art!” “Stewart!” Stretch yourself!” Come on now!”* 
“Good boy!” “Make it!” “Make it!” “That’s the style!” 
“Boulding!” “Boulding!” “Now, Glengarry, remember 
the fences at home !” “Good practice !” “That’s right !” 
“Over you go !” 

But the Glengarry man’s early training has not stood 
him in good stead. In some way or other his foot catches 
on the hurdle, he trips, stumbles, pitches headlong. Bould- 
ing, on his heels, meets the same fate and lands in an igno- 
minious heap two yards behind him. 

Stewart, who had been a close third to these leaders, 
takes the hurdle without mishap, the next, the next, and 
amid the wild shouts, hurrahs and cheers of the grand- 
stand, reaches the goal first man. 

His supporters are enthusiastic. Stewart stands first 


FORTUNE’S THREATENING EYE 95 

for the championship. The glory and praise of it all come 
to the Sophomore year. 

Then arise doubtful shakings of the head and wise 
reckonings on the part of officials and the airing of cer- 
tain iron rules, and it presently develops that Hugh’s 
victory in the hurdle-race is not allowed. The men who 
fell must be given another chance. The race is to be run 
over. Hugh refuses to be one of the competitors. He 
has won the race already. He has succeeded in keeping 
on his feet while the others have fallen. The victory is 
fairly his. This event calls for ability to jump with 
ability to run. The fact that his opponents did not clear 
the hurdles but “fell i’ the other,” is not an accident but 
a failure on one of the two tests involved in this par- 
ticular contest. They were slightly faster than Hugh, 
but in their eagerness to arrive they o’er-leaped them- 
selves. No, he will not enter a second time. So, without 
him, they line up, and, rendered wary by previous experi- 
ences, come bravely through, Boulding leading, two 
points more for Boulding. But he has broken no record 
and Stewart has the championship by one point. 

More cogitation, rumination, investigation, and in due 
course it comes to light that although Hugh Stewart has 
actually won the greatest number of points, he is not 
allowed them all because, as Boulding shows the judges, 
he had not entered in advance for all the events in which 
he competed. Reckoning thus, they conclude that the 
champion of the day is Fyfe Boulding. Fyfe Boulding! 
In no time he is hoisted on the shoulders of the crowd 
and all the Seniors gather around and yell themselves 
hoarse in praise of him and their year. 

“For he’s a jolly good fellow 
And his name is Boulding Fyfe!” 


96 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

It was a bitter moment for Hugh. Had his achieve- 
ments been less of a surprise it would have been easier 
to stand the disappointment. But victory had come so 
swift-winged that the defeat was hard to bear. He felt 
the injustice of it all. To deprive him of his rights on 
a mere technicality, the fact of not entering before, was 
hard enough. But to lose the hurdle-race to those who 
had stumbled when he had been nimble enough to keep 
his balance was outrageous. He stood alone at the side 
of a yelling crowd, trying to curb his anger, while Bould- 
ing’s supporters bore him aloft to the waiting bus, still 
shouting his praises. 

“You’re champion, all the same, Stewart,” said one of 
his year men, as he came into the dressing-room. “Look 
here, we’ll contest, all right.” 

“It’s certainly not fair.” Hugh was getting out of 
his running-boots. 

“Don’t you forget it, Stewart, you’re first man.” An- 
other man poked his head in at the door. He bore no 
love to Fyfe Boulding. “The Sophs, are up on their ear. 
There’ll be wigs on the green. That ’98 row ” 

“Come on, Hugh,” said the first fellow, in no mood 
for reminiscences. “We’ll join the crowd. Man, you’ve 
nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Hugh hesitated a moment. His inclination was to make 
his own way home, independent of any of the students. 
The bus, specially chartered for the competitors, was 
drawn up at one side, and already those within were call- 
ing to him to hurry. The sight of Fyfe, enthroned and 
jubilant, was galling to his sense of justice. 

“Come on, Stewart !” “Here’s a place, Hugh !” “Hurry 
up!” The cries and calls from the men were so friendly 
and insistent that Hugh put a strong face on the un- 
comfortable situation and, assuming as sportsmanlike an 
attitude as he could muster, jumped in with the rest. 


FORTUNE’S THREATENING EYE 97 

The last of the onlookers were leaving the grand-stand. 
The tiers of empty seats gaped down on the abandoned 
green below. The gentle stillness of late afternoon was 
gathering in the fields around. The songs and shouts of 
the departing competitors mellowed in the distance. 
Away down the street in a flood of sunset, stretched a 
long, gay line of students with floating streamers and! 
rhythmic step, following the triumphal car. 


CHAPTER IX : BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 


“If there be no great love in the beginning, yet 
heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, 
when we have more occasion to know one another.” 

— Merrie Wives of Windsor , Act I, Sc. i. 

A flood of sunlight from the western windows of old 
Convocation Hall streamed over the bowed heads of the 
students, touching with tender grace the portraits of those 
bygone teachers, which hung around the walls, as though 
illuminating their faces with something of that light 
which they had striven to diffuse in their little day of 
life. 

The hall and gallery were filled, and on the platform 
the crowd of gowned and hooded professors was aug- 
mented by many city dignitaries, for the University ser- 
mons were of a high order and the academic flavour of 
the service always made its successful appeal. There was, 
moreover, to the serious-minded student, an unfailing 
attraction in a gathering so distinctly devotional, and 
when the organ sounded the first note of the grand old 
hymn, menacing, fervent, 

“God the All-terrible, King who ordainest 
Thunder thy chariot and lightning thy sword,” 

every drop of martial blood from any remote ancestor 
leaped to the challenge, and the students, rising, faced 
their professors in common enthusiasm and together 
rolled out the stirring words, ending with that great cry, 

“Give to us peace in our time, O Lord.” 

98 


BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 99 

The sound floated out across the campus where the 
snow lay in clean drifts under the evergreen boughs, 
and the steady blue of the sky and icy stretch of lake 
were wrapped in winter stillness. 

Sermon followed the singing, and who could resist the) 
appeal of the speaker to man’s inherent nobility? A sum- 
mons it was to latent worth, a call to action, a challenge 
to the slumbering soul of goodness. As the ringing, clear- 
cut words came hot from the speaker’s heart, deep an- 
swered unto deep and many a soul was born anew to 
high endeavour. 

Far back in one of the side seats, his sinewy arm 
stretched out along the bench, sat Fyfe Boulding. He 
had chosen this seat because it was exactly on a line 
diagonally with a girl in brown, whose brown furs 
matched her hair. If Miriam Campbell were following 
the sermon, Fyfe Boulding was following the outline of 
her face as she listened. 

He told himself that she despised him. He had in- 
volved her in that stupid dance. Few would gather from 
his easy attitude how much this troubled him. Privately, 
he craved this cousin’s esteem. Her very dissimilarity 
to his own people had a curious fascination for him. Her 
directness, her candour, her set standards attracted the 
dilettante in his nature, and this in inverse ratio to her 
indifference. 

They were singing the closing hymn now. Fyfe hardly 
knew that the speaker had finished, until he found him- 
self joining in with those hundreds of strong voices, — 

“Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest.” 

It seemed in strange contrast to the weather outside, he 
thought, as he bent his head for the benediction. His 
own prayer was a vague wish that the fates might make 
it possible for him to walk home with Miriam Campbell. 


100 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

There were crowds in the way at first. They lessened 
at the campus gate, and at Artz Street she turned down. 
She must be going out to tea. Fyfe waved a hasty greet- 
ing to some friends who would have stopped him, and 
plunged through a snow-drift in pursuit. 

She turned and nodded in recognition, but without 
slackening her speed. So that Fyfe had to double his 
strides to overtake her. 

“ You’ re a pretty good sprinter, Miriam. Is this a con- 
stitutional ?” 

Miriam laughed and fell into a more reasonable gait. 
“I’m going to my cousin’s for tea,” she explained. “She 
lives out on King Street. But you probably know that.” 

Fyfe reflected how seldom she spoke of their own re j 
lationship, but he only said, “On the other side of Ports- 
mouth?” for the girl was quickening her steps again. 

“Oh, no, not so far as that,” Miriam corrected, soberly. 
But she still hurried on. 

“Perhaps I should not be troubling you with my com- 
pany,” he suggested. “I don’t know whether you have 
forgiven me for getting you into that unfortunate mix- 
up at the Freshman’s reception.” He glanced at her as 
he spoke. 

Her flush deepened. No, she had not forgiven him. 
Would it be the honest way to say so, since he had asked? 
She could not bring herself to do it. 

“It was very rough and — unpleasant,” she stammered. 

“Oh, extremely so,” Fyfe conceded, immensely relieved 
by her lenient judgment. “They seemed to lose their 
heads altogether,” — gently slipping the blame on the 
righteous hosts of the evening, — “and to ignore the pres- 
ence of the ladies entirely. I was more than sorry to have 
subjected you to it.” 

His bluster of concern went far to soothe Miriam’s 
grievance. She began to see Fyfe as one placed in an 


IOI 


BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 

awkward situation and only disturbed by the fact that 
he had involved her in it. Her attitude softened. 

And then of a sudden there appeared Sedley and Cora 
Hotchkiss, round a bend in the street just before them, 
laughing and chatting gaily and so completely absorbed 
in each other that for a moment they did not see whom 
they were meeting. Sedley stopped and the rest must per- 
force follow suit. 

Cora was all nonchalant grace. She touched Miriam’s 
fingers with a high, light pressure and nodded airily to 
Fyfe. 

“You’re going to Elizabeth’s?” Sedley said quickly. 
“That’s good. And to church?” 

“If Elizabeth goes. She generally does.” 

“Well, perhaps I’ll see you there.” He glanced away, 
uncertainly, without looking at Cora. 

“Don’t count on him,” Cora smiled slowly down on 
her. “He’s coming to tea with us and he’ll never get 
away for church at that impossible hour, what is it? 
Seven ?” 

A slight shade gathered over Sedley’s eyes but he 
quietly let it smooth away when he saw that tell-tale 
flush creep up Miriam’s cheeks. How had she picked up 
Fyfe Boulding, he wondered, or was his presence un- 
welcome ? 

Cora tapped her foot impatiently. “I’m positively 
rigid, Sedley,” she complained. “The wind is fierce. What 
are we stopping for, anyway?” 

Fyfe laughed. In many ways he was a match to Cora. 
“That’s a plain hint for us, Miriam, to make ourselves 
scarce.” 

Miriam bade an abrupt good-bye, despite Sedley’s 
demur, and started up the street, Fyfe falling in step 
briskly. Sedley wavered for a moment, but they were out 
of hearing. Cora, a fluff of white furs, her rose-pink 


102 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

hat matching her rose-pink cheeks, was smiling entic- 
ingly. 

“Let’s walk quickly, Mr. Danvers,” she cajoled, “and 
then we’ll toast our feet by the grate-fire and get a cup 
of tea, scalding hot, with piles of cream in it.” 

Meantime Fyfe and Miriam pursued their southward 
way. Fyfe was quite jovial since the encounter. “They’re 
pretty friendly, those two,” he volunteered. “I caught 
them neatly the other day. It was a glorious morning 
and I sloped lectures for a spin up the lake. Away up 
the shore by the R. M. C. I stopped to get wind, and I 
heard somebody talking. The cadets were at their classes, 
so I got curious and went on a little farther. There they 
were, Danvers and Miss Hotchkiss, sitting on a red rug 
in a little cove, as cosy as possible.” 

So they were as intimate as that ! “I suppose you left 
in a hurry,” Miriam laughed quickly, and then went on 
without waiting. “I haven’t skated on the lake this year. 
I like it far more than the rink. You can go on and on 
for miles without those tiresome turns, and the air isn’t 
damp.” 

“Could you come out to-morrow morning? The ice is 
perfectly safe and it won’t be too cold. Can’t you slope 
for once?” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of it, thank you. 
I’m going home for Christmas, on Wednesday, and I’ll 
have a lot to do. Anyway, I never slope classes,” she 
added virtuously. 

Fyfe shrugged his shoulders. “You’re in a fair way 
to be a saint or an M.A. if you keep that up. What train 
are you taking, Wednesday? Not the Kick and Push? 
C. P. R., that’s right. That’s the one I’m booked for.” 
Then, answering the surprise in her face, he added, “I’ve 
a friend down the line. I’m not going to intrude on my 
devoted aunt this time! But I’ll look out for you. 


BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 103 

There’ll be a big crowd on board. Oh, you stop here. 
I thought it was farther along. Well, good afternoon, 
Miriam. Thanks for a pleasant walk.” 

Elizabeth’s little home was a nest of comfort. A grate- 
fire glowed in the drawing-room. In the dining-room 
beyond, the table was set for four. Hugh Stewart, com- 
fortably ensconced in a big leather chair by the grate, 
was talking to Tom Rutherford. Elizabeth drew the girl 
into the hall and squeezed her joyously. “I’ve got your 
John Hielanman here,” she whispered. “And he’s awfully 
fine, Miriam. Hurry off your things and be as nice as 
you know how. I must infuse the tea.” 

Miriam slipped out of her thick coat and smoothed her 
hair at the hall mirror. Her red corals showed up 
against the yoke of her brown dress. Her cheeks and 
eyes carried out the colour scheme exactly. Tom, saunter- 
ing out to speak to her, stood between the portieres 
smiling down at her provokingly. 

“Well, Rebecca,” he began — “Ah, Miriam, I mean, — 
did you enjoy the long walk out? If you had not been 
so fashionably late, you might have had an escort.” He 
winked slyly. Of course he had seen Fyfe come up to 
the very doorstep with her. 

“I didn’t mean to be so late,” Miriam answered di- 
rectly. “But I went to Sunday service at the college 
and it was longer than I thought.” 

“It was good, I hear.” 

“How did you hear?” 

“From Mr. Stewart, the athletic champion. You 
know him, of course.” 

Miriam frowned at his effrontery, then, smiling, re- 
sponsively, slipped past him into the drawing-room, and 
shook hands with Hugh. He had risen and was stand- 
ing by the chair, the firelight playing over his tall figure 
and fresh face. 


104 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I never had a chance to tell you how glad I was that 
the championship did come to you, Mr. Stewart. It was 
yours by right ; all the girls said so. Fyfe Boulding didn’t 
play fair.” 

“Well, thank you very much,” Hugh said, embarrassed. 
“I was awfully proud and glad for it.” 

His very voice was a contrast to Fyfe’s slow drawl — 
so quick, so full, with just that little “kick” to his “g’s” 
that always caught her fancy even while she smiled. 

“Are you enjoying the winter?” he was asking her. 

“Oh, yes, I love the winter. You feel so brisk and 
ready for work, and then the skating ” 

“Do you skate?” Hugh broke in, as though a great 
idea had visited him. 

“Why, yes, every single afternoon. Don’t you?” 

“Yes, but I wasn’t seeing you.” 

“You weren’t looking for me.” 

“Well, that’s so!” he answered, rather bluntly, the girl 
thought. 

No, it wasn’t blunt either. It was just downright 
honest. Most men would have pretended they had 
searched the rink daily for her, and by some trick of 
fate had always missed. 

“I’ll look for you from this time on, don’t you forget.” 
He spoke out so suddenly that Miriam gasped. Stupid t 

“All right, if you’re a good skater!” she returned. The 
moment after she felt contrite, for his face fell. 

“I’m afraid I won’t qualify. I never got to skate much 
down home. We didn’t have skates very often, and when 
we had, they didn’t last long.” 

“You had lots of ice,” she suggested, mischievously. 

At that a pleasant vision flashed across Hugh’s mind. 
“Have you done much driving? Don’t I wish I had 
one of our horses here, and the cutter. Well, but the spin 
I’d take down this lake! It was the greatest sport you 


BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 105 

ever saw, racing on the ice !” He turned to Tom in his 
enthusiasm, but Tom was in the dining-room, evidently, 
so he was fain to turn again to Miriam. Her face glowed 
responsively. 

“All right, I’ll go whenever the horse arrives,” she 
nodded, provokingly. A sudden wild notion that visited 
him of handing precious money over to a livery, and 
booking her then and there, was checked by Elizabeth’s 
calling them in to tea. Elizabeth’s teas, like everything 
with which Elizabeth had to do, were generous. The 
table glittered with wedding silver. Plated ware 
fraternised with sterling silver unabashed in her home. 

“You’ll be breaking up classes this week, I suppose,” 
Tom said, serving the cold meat. 

“Most of them are going Wednesday,” Miriam an- 
nounced. “That’s when I’m going.” 

“And what about you, Mr. Stewart?” 

“I’m staying in town.” 

“You poor man,” Elizabeth cried out. “To spend 
Christmas holidays in a boarding-house! You take 
cream, don’t you? I remember when I went to college 
I used to wish I wasn’t a city girl, when holidays came 
round, for I did envy all the other students rushing in 
to buy their single fare tickets and having barely enough 
money left to manage it. It seemed so exciting.” 

“Do you want to go to church?” Tom asked sud- 
denly, pulling out his watch. “If you do we’ll have to 
hurry.” 

“I’ve been twice to-day,” Miriam rejoined, “and it’s 
very comfortable here.” 

“Now you’re hedging, Rebecca. Say candidly you 
don’t want to,” Tom retorted. 

So, after tea, Elizabeth led the way to the drawing- 
room. “Tom, poke up the fire, like a good man. You 


106 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

sing, Mr. Stewart? Oh, we’ll try something quite fa- 
miliar. Would you rather have a psalm ?” 

Miriam never forgot that evening. The soft light of 
the room, the comradeship, the music, the sense of joy 
in her life, her college work, the anticipation of the trip 
home, and Christmas, it all lived in her memory in those 
strange days which were to follow and of which she was 
then in blissful ignorance. 

For in no time, as it seemed, it was Wednesday, and 
in her trunk were Christmas gifts and a pile of books to 
be studied during that elastic fortnight at home. Sedley 
was at the station waiting and took her valise as she 
came hurrying on to the platform. 

“There’s plenty of time.” His warm smile was re- 
assuring. “Have you got your ticket? Give it to me 
and I’ll check your trunk. You’d better let your bag go, 
too.” 

He came out again quickly. “Well,” he said, looking 
down at her as they stood on the platform, “are you glad 
to be going away?” 

“Yes, I’m glad to be going home, of course. But ' 
I’ll be glad to get back, too.” 

“I haven’t seen much of you, lately. Where have you 
been keeping yourself?” 

“Why, just in the usual places, Sedley, around college 
and my boarding-house.” She had missed him. But it 
was worse when he put the blame on her. 

“Yes, I know,” he said quickly. “You’re always the 
same dependable Miriam. It’s we others who fly from 
one thing to another. Never mind, after Christmas 

“Yes, after Christmas,” Miriam echoed, a little smile 
creeping around her mouth. “That’s a wonderful time, 
‘After Christmas’; every one seems to be waiting for it, 
to do great things. We’re going to begin to study then. 
We’ve been thinking about it all Autumn.” 


BETTER ACQUAINTANCE 107 

Sedley was watching her with a curious, lingering ex- 
pression. It was as though he too was conscious of the 
slight barrier between them and would fain remove it. 
Then the shriek of the locomotive sent a thrill of 
expectation through the waiting crowds. 

Miriam was bundled into the train. Sedley put mag- 
azines and candies beside her, and with a hurried fare- 
well she was off. 


CHAPTER X: QUARREL IN A STRAW 


“Rightly to be great 
Is not to stir without great argument; 

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 
When honour’s at the stake.” 

— Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. 3. 

The train roared into Ottawa station. It was a bit- 
terly cold day and the drifted snow was dazzling in the 
winter sunshine. Yet quite a crowd was waiting, and 
Miriam spied her sister’s familiar form among the rest, 
eagerly pressing forward. It was her first home-coming 
and the sensation was a pleasant one. She felt herself 
a woman of the world with three months of University 
life behind her and the acquaintance of some hundreds 
of young men and women to her credit. 

A pronounced embrace proclaimed to all onlookers the 
fact that the prodigal was receiving a welcome home. 
Then Pauline’s eyes became engaged in a swift survey 
of the outpouring throngs of students. Miriam was 
fumbling for her trunk check among a medley of papers, 
keys, erasers and hairpins. “Yes it’s here, I’ve got it! 
At first I didn’t think I’d need a trunk, but then I thought 
I would. You never know what you want, and then 
there are my books. I must study.” 

Deaf to her sister’s chatter, Pauline was completely 
engrossed with the students around them who were ex- 
changing noisy greetings or fond farewells, despite the 
frosty air. She quite enjoyed the stir and excitement of 
it all, and was distinctly annoyed when Miriam touched 
her arm suggestively. “Perhaps we should go, Pauline?” 

108 ' 


QUARREL IN A STRAW 109 

Pauline responded so far as to slip her arm into the 
younger girl’s as she lolled against her, but still listened 
and smiled at large. Miriam gave another pull to the 
arm locked in hers. Pauline moved one unwilling step 
in the direction of home. The shout of “All aboard!” 
recalled her suddenly, and the train glided out. 

Pauline turned away with a fretful shiver. “It’s 
blessed cold on this platform. I suppose we’ve missed 
our car through that stupid delay. Come on!” 

The Campbells lived in a substantial brick house set 
back among trees. Roderick Campbell had been in the 
Government employ in increasingly responsible positions 
ever since he had moved to Ottawa from the Island of 
Cape Breton. Highly esteemed, reserved to the point of 
austerity, a scholarly man, books were his favourite 
pastime. Hence his special interest in his daughter’s 
academic career. 

“Well, Miriam, back for your holidays?” he asked, 
kissing her. Then, surveying her with more interest 
than his wife had seen him show for many a day, “You’re 
looking well,” he concluded. 

“How do you like her suit, Roderick?” Mrs. Camp- 
bell asked, catching him out of his reverie for once. 
“She looks very smart, I think. It needs pressing, 
Miriam,” she added, “and I certainly wouldn’t have 
worn that blouse for travelling. It’s all right for school.” 

“College, mother. You always say school.” 

“How are your Aunt Ellen and your uncle, and all 
of them?” her father asked, dwelling with evident pleas- 
ure on the girl’s animated expression. 

“What about Sedley?” Pauline broke in. “Is it true 
that he’s engaged to that Hotchkiss girl? That’s the 
story that’s come down here. You never tell us any- 
thing. You fill your letters with ‘receptions’ and ‘year’ 
meetings that we don’t care a bit for, and never write a 


no MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

word about the people we do know. What about them? 
Are they really engaged? I can’t believe it of Sedley. 
Did you see them much together?” 

‘Two or three times anyway,” Miriam said, flushing 
at the vexatious remembrance of that encounter by the 
lakeside. 

“No time for Shakespeare now, I suppose,” Pauline 
said, noticing the flush. “It’s a mighty good thing for 
you to get over talking that twaddle.” 

“Shakespeare — twaddle?” said her father. 

“Miriam’s talk was at any rate.” Pauline never en- 
joyed her father’s sallies. “Speaking of being in love 
with Orlando and all that nonsense, and going mooning 
down the garden after Sedley, for all the world as though 
she were head over ears in love with him” 

“So I am,” Miriam said, hotly. 

“Oh, you’re trying to work the cousin idea very beau- 
tifully, my girl, but there’s more than that to it You 
never get so upset over Fyfe. Mother, I wish you could 
j^ave seen those specimens of students! Very sporty- 
looking, I thought them !” 

“You weren’t talking to them, Miriam?” Her mother’s 
tone was tense with horror. 

“Talking with them? She certainly was! The train 
was full of men from Kingston,” Pauline interrupted. 

“There was nothing sporty about them!” Miriam 
flared up. 

“I sincerely hope not,” her mother said. “But surely 
you would know. What about it, Pauline?” 

“I didn’t have much chance for details,” said her eld- 
est daughter cautiously. “But they weren’t anything to 
look at, I’ll tell you that straight, Mother, and my opin- 
ion of them isn’t very high.” 

“I’m very much surprised at you, Miriam. Yes, and 
vexed,” her mother began. “Roderick, I always said she 


QUARREL IN A STRAW hi 

should not bo trusted alone. I thought her Aunt Ellen 
would have guarded against friendships of that sort, 
but it seems she hasn’t.” 

“My dear Laura, how can her Aunt Ellen sort out 
acquaintances among those hundreds of students?’' Mr. 
Campbell was always aroused when his wife attacked his 
sister Ellen. “She doesn’t know the college men. I 
hope Miriam has enough native sense to look after her- 
self.” 

Miriam turned a troubled glance at her father. Did 
his answer hold a reproof for the style of acquaintance 
her sister pictured? She would not deign an explana- 
tion before Pauline, but at the first opportunity she 
would tell her father all about things down in Kingston. 
She coveted his approbation. Surely he understood how 
baseless were her sister’s fabrications. 

“Who was the queer-looking bundle in the grey hat 
with all the brood?” her sister asked when they were 
seated around the dinner table some time later. “She 
wias shouting good-bye out of the window, but you 
didn’t see her.” 

Miriam started in contrite recollection. “Mrs. Dan 
Rutherford!” she exclaimed. “I met her on the train. 
I’m so sorry I forgot. But I’ll see her next week.” 

“Why, does she live in town? She went right on!” 

“No. She’s going down to her mother’s for Christ- 
mas, — she’s ” 

“Rutherford, Mrs. Dan Rutherford,” Mrs. Campbell 
narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. “Is that poor Eliza- 
beth’s sister-in-law?” 

“Elizabeth’s sister-in-law. Yes, that’s what she is. 
She comes from near here. She’s taking the children to 
the country for Christmas.” 

“And what is she going to do in Ottawa ?” 


ii 2 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“She has some friends here — I think she said. I’m not 
sure.” 

“Yes, oh, probably, over among the French. How 
did you come to meet her, Miriam ?” 

“We were sitting in the same seat, the car was ter- 
ribly crowded, and she introduced herself.” 

“She looked like that sort,” Pauline put in. 

“Well, she was very friendly. She was asking all 
about us ” she hesitated and stopped. 

“Yes?” her mother said. She saw that Miriam kept 
something back. “What was she asking you? I hope 
you did not become garrulous and confide in her all our 
home affairs! I meant to have told you especially not 
to mention to anybody your Aunt Victoria’s plan for her 
Summer home. She particularly wishes it kept private.” 

Miriam laughed indignantly. Why should she start 
talking about her Aunt Victoria’s mysterious and impor- 
tant plans? The Boulding relations were not prime fa- 
vorites with Miriam, least of all Fyfe, who as a small boy 
had got into her bad graces by devouring her box of 
preserved fruits. 

In quiet seclusion at the bottom of her trunk lay 
Miriam’s college books during all the Christmas festivi- 
ties. The days passed like a dream — shopping, calls, 
luxurious evening hours with books, short, busy morn- 
ings. All the same old life, and yet with a difference. 
There was a feeling of expectancy, a sense of marking 
time, an eagerness, through all her enjoyment, for the 
end of holidays and the return to college. She felt that 
the roots of her life were set in a new soil, that she shared 
her sister’s interests in but a superficial manner, and the 
fact that she knew she must conceal this only proved how 
radical the separation was. Pauline was too keen not to 
understand. “It’s just as I told you, Mother, last June,” 
she said one evening. “Miriam isn’t the same girl at all. 


QUARREL IN A STRAW 113 

I knew it would spoil her. She doesn’t care a fig for us 
now. It’s all college, college.” 

“She seems very content,” her mother protested, un- 
willing to notice the change. “She’s upstairs putting 
hooks on the back of her green dress, singing quite 
happily.” 

“Yes, did you notice what she was singing? ‘Queen’s 
College is our jolly home,’ to the long meter doxology. 
That sort of irreverence doesn’t sit well on Miriam. 
She’s getting too flip and cool. I suppose that’s the cor- 
rect thing in University training, but it didn’t strike me 
as very reverential. She certainly is not as good as she 
was three months ago. She had the audacity to tell me 
Carlyle was inspired when he wrote ‘Sartor Resartus.’ ” 

Her father, getting into his overcoat, turned to lis- 
ten. His eyes were gleaming under their shaggy brows. 
How much he would have enjoyed that conversation be- 
tween Miriam and Pauline ! “She said that, did she, that 
Carlyle was inspired? I suppose she’ll be saying the 
same of Wordsworth’s ‘Tintern Abbey.’ ” 

“Oh, I suppose she would,” Pauline spoke doubtfully, 
not quite sure of her father’s ground. “You really ought 
to speak to her, father. She’ll go all lengths before she’s 
through. She’ll be an agnostic.” 

It was a Sabbath evening and Miriam was walking 
home with her father along the snowy streets. Long 
fingers of light from the church windows stretched into 
the darkness. “A week from to-morrow you leave us, 
Miriam?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry I do.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be sorry if I were you. You’ll never 
have a happier time than at college.” 

“Why, Elizabeth says that’s not true, father. She told 
me she enjoyed life more each year.” 

“Well, Elizabeth may, but I can’t say it’s true of my- 


1 1 4 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

self. Whether it’s something physical or mental or both 
I cannot determine, but certainly the years press heavily 
on me. My college days and my days at the old home 
are a very bright memory.” His tone was low and de- 
pressed and struck Miriam’s heart. Very rarely did he 
speak this way. 

Just as they reached their own doorstep a little woman, 
bustling down from the opposite direction, called out to 
Miriam, “Miss Campbell, just a moment.” 

“It’s Mrs. Dan Rutherford,” Miriam said hurriedly. 
“Why in the world should she come poking along on Sun- 
day night?” 

The grey hat bobbed into view under the electric light. 
Her round face beamed familiarly. 

She gave her nervous little laugh when presented to 
Mr. Campbell. “Delighted to meet you. Thanks, yes, 
I’ll go in for a few minutes. I really shouldn’t for I’ve 
left the children with my cousin, and Vivian’s back teeth 
are just coming through and she’s real fretty.” 

They were in the house by this time. The far end 
of the library opened into the dining-room where the table 
could be spied arranged for supper. Mrs. Campbell was 
entertaining two gentlemen at the upper end of the room, 
while Pauline was putting fruit and cake on the table. 
It made a welcome picture and Mrs. Dan took in every 
detail with a second’s glance of her round little eyes. 

Then there was a hurried scuffle in the dining-room 
as some one turned off the light. At the same time Mrs. 
Campbell pulled the portieres sharply across the dining- 
room entrance, and, excusing herself abruptly, hurried 
into the hall. The glance that she gave Mrs. Dan would 
have frozen any one else perfectly solid. Miriam felt 
her heart grow icy within her. 

“This is Mrs. Dan Rutherford, mother,” she faltered. 
“She came in for a few minutes’ chat.” 


QUARREL IN A STRAW 115 

“So glad to meet you,” purred little Mrs. Dan, quite 
unabashed, though she had seen all the agitated move- 
ments inside. “I have always heard great things of Mrs. 
Rod. Campbell.” 

Mr. Campbell grinned into the depths of his overcoat 
before he parted with it. Never before had Laura been 
called Mrs. “Rod.” 

“Come into the drawing-room.” Mrs. Campbell swept 
her and Miriam inside and pulled the door behind them. 
One would have supposed there were arch conspirators 
in the library. 

“And did you meet in church?” Mrs. Campbell asked 
frigidly, when they were seated on chill, brocaded chairs. 

“No, I came the other way. Well, really, I confess 
I didn’t go out to-night. We were at the cathedral this 
morning. I’m 'church/ But to-night Vivian was fretty 
with her teeth, and I didn’t like to leave her with my 
friend. You know, Mrs. Campbell, how it is with teeth- 
ing babies, you with girls of your own.” She glanced 
towards the door as though she expected the other daugh- 
ter to appear and be presented. 

But she might have known better. Pauline was talking 
away gaily to the men, wishing every moment that “that 
person” would take her departure and let them put on 
supper. 

Mrs. Campbell did not launch out into the subject of 
teething. She continued to address general remarks and 
questions to Mrs. Dan, completely ignoring the unhappy 
Miriam. And Mrs. Dan rambled on and on about babies 
and boys and Kingston, and to Miriam’s horror pointed 
a finger at her for “flirting,” until, what with the in- 
creasing chill in the room and in her mother’s manner, 
Miriam felt as though she would have to scream. For 
every one was waiting — Pauline for her mother’s re- 
appearance — her mother for this little woman’s departure 


ii6 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

— and this little woman herself for the supper, for which 
she was more than ready. 

Just when Mrs. Dan was launched into a lengthy 
description of Claude’s glands, and Mrs. Campbell was 
playing with a paper-knife in a manner bordering on rude- 
ness, and Miriam was trying to look desperately inter- 
ested, the drawing-room door opened suddenly, and Mr. 
Campbell, poking in his head asked in exasperated tones, 
“Aren’t we ever going to have supper, Mamma?” 

It was bad enough to speak of supper at this juncture, 
but to call her “Mamma” was the last straw. Mrs. Camp- 
bell swept to her feet, Miriam followed automatically; 
little Mrs. Dan bobbed up too, and before she knew it 
found herself shaking hands with her hostess. It was 
very neatly done and no one but Mrs. Campbell could 
have forced so much effusion into her tones, nor drawn 
her visitor so skilfully to the front door as she pressed 
her hand in farewell. 

When the last sound of her quick little footsteps had 
crunched away down the street, Miriam faced her mother, 
her cheeks one scarlet dye. “Why didn’t you ask her 
in for supper, Mother ?” she demanded impetuously. 

Mrs. Campbell stepped back into the drawing-room to 
prevent being overheard. Then she answered coolly, 
“Why? Because I did not choose to. I am free to ask 
what guests I want in my own house, am I not, Miriam ?” 

“Freedom means freedom to choose the right,” the 
young girl blurted out, some sudden whiff of philosophy 
blowing into her brain. 

“The right? And who is to say what is right ? Surely 
not the daughter to her mother. What folly have you 
got in your mind now? Come in to supper at once. It 
is shamefully late for my guests.” 

“I’m not going to supper. I don’t want any. I’m go- 
ing upstairs to bed.” Her voice was muffled. 


QUARREL IN A STRAW n 7 

“Of course you want supper. Don't go off into 
heroics." 

“No, Mother, it would choke me. I want to go up- 
stairs. That poor, nice little Mrs. Dan who shared her 
lunch with me." 

“Well, you were very foolish to take it. There was a 
diner on, surely?" 

Miriam swallowed her answer. She knew if she said 
she had no money all sorts of questions would be asked. 
She suddenly shot past her mother as though she would 
be captured bodily and rushing upstairs shut herself 
in her room. Her teeth were chattering from the long 
stay in the cold drawing-room, but big, hot tears were 
bursting from her eyes. 


CHAPTER XI: THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 


“You were used 

To say extremity was the trier of spirits; 

That common chances common men could bear; 

That when the sea was calm all boats alike 

Show’d mastership in floating.” 

— Coriolanus, Act IV, Sc. i. 

“The marriage is announced of Miss Cora Hotchkiss 
with Mr. Sedley Danvers at Kingston, Ontario, on the 
evening of December the twenty-fourth.” 

Miriam Campbell, sitting in her boarding-house this 
quiet, snowy evening, scribbling idly in her note-book, 
recalled the morning that this news had reached their 
home. Recalled Pauline’s fluster of excitement, her 
mother’s reserved smile, her father’s ill-concealed anger, 
her own sense of complete disappointment. 

Sedley had acted so covertly, so hurriedly. His own 
uncle had no warning. That was hard to bear. But his 
choice of wives was inexplicable. Had he been a man of 
many loves, the amazement would not have been so gen- 
eral. But Sedley had never been so. He was naturally 
genial, fond of the society of his kind, fond of prodding 
odd corners to discover hidden mines of character, of 
laughing over human foibles, of melting his heart at the 
pathetic and pitiful, often so bravely hidden. So he had 
many friends; and so, in the diffusion of his interests 
he had comparatively few intimates. 

Among his girl friends there were many whose light 
remarks stirred his laughter, whose sallies provoked his 
quick retorts. But no one had imagined that the cul- 
118 


THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 


119 

tured young lawyer would link himself with one whose 
thin life could contribute less than nothing to the monu- 
ment which their united lives should raise. People did 
not voice their objections in these words, but none the 
less they felt the incongruity of the alliance. 

The wedding was still a nine days’ wonder when 
Miriam returned to Kingston. Her landlady, an enquir- 
ing soul, fond of ferreting out secrets, counted herself 
fortunate to have the cousin of the much-talked-of bride- 
groom beneath her roof. 

“I suppose they’ll be taking in all the theatres,” she 
began as she handed Miriam her cup of tea. When this 
good woman wanted to take you off guard and surprise 
you into admitting something, she invariably jumped at 
once into the middle of her subject. 

Miriam knew whom she meant; her own thoughts had 
been with the bridal couple. So she answered carefully, 
“You mean Mr. Danvers?” 

“And Mrs. Danvers,” the other supplemented, with 
relish. 

The glow on the girl’s cheek deepened. As quickly as 
possible she disposed of her thin, hot tea. She would 
hurry upstairs. 

“I expect you knew about it, though, Miss Campbell,” 
her landlady wheedled. “When the talk was all of how 
sudden the thing was, and what a shock to his folks, I 
said, ‘Oh, Miss Campbell will know all the ins and outs 
long since. Her cousin Sedley always made a lot of 
her.’ ” 

Miriam struggled for a non-committal reply. Find- 
ing none, she drank more tea. 

“Have some cake,” her landlady urged. “You’ll be 
helping the bride receive, I suppose? When do they 
come back? Of course you’ve heard from him.” 


120 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

No, she hadn’t, not a word from Sedley. But not for 
the world would she admit this. 

‘They say she looked pretty as a picture, going off,’* 
the garrulous voice continued. “Some friends of ours 
saw them at the Junction and they said he just couldn’t 
keep his eyes off her.” 

Miriam pushed back her cup. “Have another,” was 
the genial invitation. “Come, you haven’t made out your 
meal. You’re not homesick already? Did you leave 
your mother well? Stout as ever? Well, I wouldn’t take 
the marriage too hard. Of course she’s not as good as 
he is by a long chalk, but then she’s pretty and she’s 
society and that goes a good way in Kingston.” 

Privately Miriam thought Kingston’s standards were 
higher than that. She said to herself, as she trailed up 
to her room again, that such an old University city put 
too high a premium on culture and intellectual acumen to 
enthrone in their social circles one of Cora’s type, even 
with the cloak of Sedley ’s name and reputation thrown 
around her. 

But how could she bring herself to meet the bride? 
How could she call her “Cousin Cora”? How could she 
bear to see Cora claiming relationship with her uncle 
Owen and cousin Elizabeth, and, it might be, trying to 
patronise her? As Miriam sorted her notes and looked 
over her books for the new term’s work that first, long, 
lonely evening, she reviewed in imagination all these 
mortifications in store for her. 

But the next morning came arrayed in white and gold 
and pink; diamonds danced on the snow and new life 
tingled in the veins. Miriam’s courage revived. How 
delightful to step out into the keen air, fresh and re- 
sponsive to all the morning’s charms! 

“Joy was it in that dawn to be alive, 

But to be young was very heaven. ,, 


121 


THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 

Threading the paths beneath snow-laden evergreens 
across the city park, tramping in from the long lake 
shore, or hurrying from the upper streets — singly, in 
groups, in Indian file, in solid phalanx — chattering, 
chaffing, chanting their College ditties — from every quar- 
ter of the city came the students, their goal the old lime- 
stone buildings, around the white quadrangle. 

“My father sent me down to Queen’s 
That there I might become a man, 

So now I’m in the city, 

Where the girls they are so pretty. 

On the old Ontario strand.” 

At the corner of Deacon Street Miriam fell in with a 
group of girls. “When did you get back?” they asked 
her. “Did you do any studying in the holidays ?” There 
was a laugh as she shook her head. “I’m glad you 
didn’t,” said one of them. “It relieves my conscience 
greatly.” 

“Miss Campbell doesn’t need to study in holidays,” 
said Rachael, quite seriously. A pale, set-looking girl 
spoke up then. She did not altogether approve of 
Miriam. “I translated all my ‘La Fontaine,’ and three 
chapters of ‘Aus dem Geschichte.’ ” 

“Well you’re a Taugenichts yourself to do it,” another 
cried out. “You look awfully white,” she added, spite- 
fully. “To study in the holidays is an unpopular move 
and, if you really achieve it, to boast of it afterwards 
is most unwise.” 

“Wait until Mephisto hears of it,” they told her. 
“He’ll put you in the German play, see if he doesn’t. 
Then good-bye to the rink.” 

Laughing and talking they passed into the warm, dim 
air of the old Arts building. A moment later the door 
that had slammed behind them opened to admit a group 


122 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

of men who had been following in their footsteps. Hugh 
Stewart was one of the group. He came up the stairs be- 
hind them. As the girls branched up their side, Rachael 
nudged Miriam significantly. Turning, she noticed the 
faint flush on the little Jewess’ heavy white cheeks. 

“That’s Mr. Stewart,” whispered Rachael. “Hasn’t 
he got the most beautiful eyes? I never got an intro- 
duction, but I will, for we’ll have to receive together 
at our year ‘At Home.’ He’s the president, you know, 
and I’m first Vice. That’s the way they did last year.” 
Her laugh was freighted with excitement. 

Miriam was plainly surprised. Somehow she had 
never thought of the little Jewess as being particularly 
interested in the students who passed her in and out of 
the halls and lecture-rooms. And though Rachael was 
a favourite with the girls and had been ever since her 
initial somersault, it was doubtful whether the men 
gave a second glance to the small figure in black with 
bright, dark eyes, peering out from behind her spectacles. 
Yet she had fixed her choice and had begun her secret 
worship. 

Hugh was in the pillory that morning in “Junior Phil.” 
The Professor had brought a bunch of corrected essays, 
on the subject of the “Summum Bonum,” and he stood 
gleefully by the side of his desk, while he put some 
questions to “Stewart” regarding the essay submitted, 
which though placed in class “B” evidently held some 
promising mistakes. Hugh’s face was set and pale, but 
he held his ground and answered doggedly each penetrat- 
ing question. Miriam felt a wave of pity surge in her 
heart. How merciless the professor was! Would he 
never let the poor fellow off? And how mean to throw 
back your head and roar at an answer which was won- 
derfully good, she thought. 

She had managed her essay and achieved class “A,” 


THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 123 

but never could she have stood up before the class ful to 
answer such challenging, incriminating questions, put 
with such keen relish — never, never in this world ! Hugh 
was splendid! 

“He’ll ask a girl next. Duck your head!” whispered 
the girl beside her. “He’s looking our way. No, it’s an- 
other man. Say, your cousin got back, eh?” 

Miriam shook her head. The cloud came up and 1 
covered her sky once more. 

“Yes they did — last night — my cousin came on the 
train with them. I met him on the way to college. Sh ! 
The Prof’s looking.” 

So they were home, had cut their wedding-trip short. 
Now she was faced with it. This was her Hill Diffi- 
culty surely. 

The lectures dragged through their weary length. 
Miriam longed for release, and yet she almost dreaded 
the walk home. She might meet Sedley coming through 
the park, might meet them both. Surely it was all a 
nightmare and she would wake and laugh over her dis- 
tress. 

But the days passed along with the same round of 
lectures and studies ; the same dread of an encounter kept 
her away from her aunt’s house; there persisted the same 
conviction that she should show her mettle by going to 
see the bride, the same shrinking, the same unhappiness. 

One evening her landlady read from the society col- 
umn the announcement of Mrs. Sedley Danvers’ post- 
nuptial reception. “To-morrow, then,” Miriam said to 
herself, “will be my hard day, my Waterloo. For I must, 
i will, be Cora’s first caller.” 

Mrs. Sedley Danvers’ house was one of a brick row. 
You mounted a tiny flight of steps and before you knew 
,t, found yourself in a square vestibule, with a brand- 
new mat for your snowy feet, and a shining bell to press. 


124 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

You pressed it. An immaculate maid whirled open the 
door and you were ushered into a softly-carpeted little 
drawing-room. 

Cora, in trailing white, was near the door; beside her, 
Elizabeth. Of course Elizabeth would be there, Eliza- 
beth whose hurt was deeper far than Miriam’s, and who 
yet was ready to forget herself completely for Sedley’3 
sake. 

Elizabeth gave her cousin a radiant smile, as though 
it were a beautiful thing to come here. Heavy on 
Miriam’s heart lay the remembrance of those days and 
weeks of rebellion and unhappiness which had led up to 
this day. 

But Cora was all effusion. She really looked hand- 
some, and her tiny home made quite a sparkling back- 
ground in all its bridal freshness. Perhaps — was it pos- 
sible that Cora was the very one for Sedley, after all? 
Miriam shut the thought away in trembling denial. 

“How perfectly dear of you to call so soon!” Cora 
gave an infinitesimal peck to her cheek. “You’re posi- 
tively the very first. Of course it’s frightfully early you 
know, and I suppose I’ll have a perfect shoal of callers. 
Everybody says they’re coming.” She gave an exag- 
gerated sigh of weariness. Then, gushing again, “But I 
do think it was sweet of you to be the first. I must tell 
Sedley. He thinks you have the most wonderful brains.” 1 

Miriam felt at a loss to know what to say. For once 
she wished Pauline were there. “Did you have a nice 
trip ?” she ventured. 

The bride shrugged her white shoulders. “Oh, New 
York was all right, but I was nearly congealed in that 
beastly hotel. I couldn’t stand it any longer so I told 
Sedley to pack up that night.” 

Elizabeth stirred slightly. “It was a pity, too, that 


THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 125 

you couldn’t have gone on to Washington. I’m sure 
you would have enjoyed it.” 

“Oh, I suppose,” was Cora’s nonchalant reply. “Sed- 
ley tried to stick out for it, but I simply wouldn’t hear 
of it, so back we came.” She renewed her intent smile 
as a young girl came gliding in from behind the por- 
tieres with a cup of tea. 

“This is my cousin,” she murmured. “Miss Miriam 
Campbell, Sedley’s cousin, you know, and frightfully 
clever.” 

Miriam coloured awkwardly at the introduction. The 
other affected dismay. “Do ‘frightfully clever’ people 
drink tea ?” she asked, holding off the tray uncertainly. 

“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth, promptly. “With plenty of 
sugar and cream. Surely you’ve noticed Sedley’s pro- 
clivities. It’s in the family.” Miriam could have hugged 
her for the whole-souled way in which she swept her 
into the inner circle and left Cora to feel herself the 
new-comer. 

But the other little soul was too microscopic to let this 
pass unchallenged. Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose it’s 
no use, though, to offer Miss Campbell bride cake,” she 
said with a small smile. “She wouldn’t condescend to 
dream over it.” 

Cora laughed immoderately at this sally. “She thinks 
you put examination papers under your pillow. How 
screamingly funny! I must tell Fyfe Boulding. Pass 
the cake, you absurd child. There’s the bell. First of 
the mob, I suppose. Oh you’re not going, are you? 
Those wretched lectures ! Well, it was awfully sweet of 
you to come. Good- bye.” She spirited Miriam’s hand 
into mid-air, where she pressed her fingers and dropped 
them lightly. Miriam deposited her card in the hall and 
fled. 

The University Y. W. C. A. met on Friday afternoons 


126 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

at four o’clock, up in the old Minerva room. Miriam 
had been there once or twice in the Autumn term, and 
might have made a more determined effort at regularity 
but for the fact that one of the most active workers was 
a girl she particularly disliked. Ever since the unfor- 
tunate episode of the Minerva room dance she had looked 
askance at Miriam, as one who had fallen from grace, 
yet had pointedly invited her to the Y. W. meetings 
and presented her with the year’s programme neatly 
printed. Pulling out her calling cards at Cora’s, Miriam 
had drawn this with it, and in the sudden revulsion of 
feeling against all the social whirl which Cora’s post- 
nuptial reception at that moment typified, she suddenly 
determined to go straight back to college and visit the 
Y. W. It was only a quarter to four. 

As she hurried through the park, she took out the card 
again and noticed the name of the leader. How strange 
it was, too, that she should be the one, a girl who was 
at all the student’s dances! It can’t be the same surely, 
Miriam concluded. Groups of girls were coming away 
from lectures as she passed through the campus. One 
of her own freshette bunch accosted her. “To the 
Y. W.?” 

“Yes, come on back,” Miriam urged. She had a 
sudden desire to be one in a large gathering. She need 
have had no fears on that score, however, for the lead- 
er’s name was sufficient inducement, despite the attrac- 
tions of the rink, and when Miriam and the two girls 
she had annexed passed up the dim hall to the third 
story, they found the old room filled to the doors. The 
girls were mostly those of the junior and senior years, 
but to Miriam’s astonishment she found herself next 
Rachael, the little Jewess. Rachael’s pale face lighted 
with its kind smile as she passed a hymn book. The 


THE TRIER OF SPIRITS 127 

same old metallic piano which jangled out two-steps for 
the ardent dancers between lectures was playing softly, 

“Hold thou my hand, so weak I am and helpless, 

I dare not take one step without thine aid.” 

This was a prime favourite with the college girls, and 
played so appealingly in this quiet hour, up above the 
struggles of the lecture rooms, after the strain of the 
day’s endeavours, its effect was very fine. Miriam’s heart 
leaped up at that unison of voices. 

Though but fragments of the address floated through 
her mind as she made her way down the campus path an 
hour later, she felt how she had been helped. Part- 
ing from the other girls, she turned up a side street. 

And then suddenly she came face to face with Sedley. 

“Miriam!” he exclaimed. 

She wondered at herself for being so composed. “I 
didn’t see you coming,” she said simply. “I was at the; 
Y. W. C. A.” 

“The Y. W. ? What took you there?” 

“Why, it’s a good place to go, isn’t it?” 

He laughed aloud. “Of course it is. A good place 
to go. Certainly.” Then, “You were calling at our 
home to-day.” 

Miriam flushed suddenly. “Yes,” she said. “I was 
calling on your wife. How did you know?” 

Sedley smiled. “I heard your voice. I was finishing 
a letter upstairs, and was going to run down but the 
bell rang again, and I was caught and you escaped.” Pie 
stood smiling down as though waiting for her to speak. 

What should she say? “Congratulations on your 
marriage, Sedley” ? But she could not with honesty say 
that. Something kind and truthful anyway. 

“Cora looked very well, Sedley. And your house is 


128 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

as pretty as it can be. I hope you are going to be very 
happy.” 

A quick light came into his eyes. “Thank you,” he 
said. “Your benediction, I was afraid, was never com- 
ing.” 

Her heart smote her. “It was all so unexpected,” she 
faltered, and then wished she had left these last words 
unsaid. 

“Yes,” Sedley answered gravely. “And I erred there. 
I should have given my best friends word beforehand. 
I spoke of writing you. And so I meant to. But — 
things moved so fast ” he smiled reminiscently, look- 

ing off across the snowy streets on which the arc lights 
were making long paths of brightness. 

“You forgive me?” He turned with his sudden smile. 
Forgive him? Yes, and try to be as good a friend of 
Cora’s, as true and as generous as it was possible for her 
to be. 

She smiled, assenting. 

“How is Paul?” he asked in parting. “Does she find 
Queen’s has spoiled you?” 

“Oh, yes. That’s what she says. That I’ve lost all in- 
terest in the home.” 

“Of course not. But you’ve found something larger. 
You’re out after big game. Well, I must hurry. Come 
soon to see us. Good-night.” 

He hastened away in the darkness, and Miriam turned 
resolutely up the street which led to her temporary home. 


CHAPTER XII: SPARKS OF NATURE 


“How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature!” 

— Cymbeline, Act III, Sc. 3. 

“I say, Stewart, lend me a strap.” 

“Pm sorry I don’t own such a thing.” 

“ You’re lucky not to need them. I gave a twist to 
this left ankle of mine when I was a little kid, skating 
on a pond back of our yard. It’s been weak ever since. 
I’ll try over here.” 

He stamped across the little dressing-room to where 
another group of skaters were lacing up their hockey 
boots. Hugh straightened up to his full length, pulled 
down his sweater and drew on his gloves. The band 
at the far end of the rink was striking up “Annie Laurie” 
and the music blending with the whir-r and swish of the 
hundreds of skaters sounded quite inviting. It was a 
Saturday afternoon in mid-winter, and the rink was 
filled. 

Hugh stood by the door of the dressing-room, trying 
to identify individuals among the motley throng, and 
was on the point of casting in his lot with the crowd. 
Two men walking around the side of the rink stopped 
beside him. 

“Mr. Hugh Stewart?” 

Hugh nodded. 

“Well, Mr. Stewart, you may have heard of the move- 
ment among the students to erect a convocation hall in 
honor of the Principal.” 

“I heard the County had refused the money.” 

129 


1 3 o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“The County, yes, unfortunately. But this is under- 
taken by the students, and we propose to finance it our- 
selves, and name it Grant Hall.” 

“That’s splendid.” 

“I’m glad you feel like that. I think we shall have 
the support of every student. Could you canvass your 
year, the men, I mean?” 

“How are the subscriptions running? How high, I 
mean?” 

One of the men named a figure which seemed large, 
but Hugh nodded quietly. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. 

“Thanks very much. You won’t find they need much 
urging, and there’s no end to what they can do if they 
once get started. Of course some of them can subscribe 
straight. All right, thanks, we’ll see you again.” 

Hugh ran down the steps on the points of his skates 
and glided in between the groups of skaters. Another 
man, dodging around a corner, almost knocked into him. 

“Look out!” 

“Beg your pardon, Stewart. I didn’t see you coming. 
That’s such a dark corner by the dressing-room. Great 
crowd here. The ice is in fine shape, though. I see 
Boulding is enjoying himself.” 

“Where do you mean?” 

“Right in front of you, to the left now. Don’t you 
see, man? Fyfe Boulding and Mrs. Danvers?” 

Hugh looked in silence. Cora Danvers was in a scar- 
let skating suit, with white furs. Her head was tilted 
at a charming angle, and her large eyes were pensively 
fixed on her escort’s face. He was bending towards 
her, talking volubly. 

“What do you call that, eh ? Isn’t that a flirtation for 
you ?” 

“Where’s her husband?” Hugh asked impatiently. 


SPARKS OF NATURE 131 

“Oh, down at his office. He’ll call for her when the 
fun is over and they’ll walk off, happy ever after. Na r 
he’s not either. Isn’t that Danvers standing there by* 
the post?” 

Hugh turned to look and at once recognised the young* 
lawyer. The two students made a wider circle next 
time and came close to the benches where many were 
resting or waiting for friends. Sedley Danvers was 
leaning against a post, scanning the crowd. His eye lit 
on Cora at once, for her scarlet suit showed up brightly, 
and he stood watching her before she knew he was 
there. 

The other student nudged Hugh’s arm. “I wouldn’t 
stand for that sort of thing if I were her husband. Best 
to start in strict with them, from the first. Then you 
avoid trouble. Reminds me of a good story I 
heard ” 

His lengthy recital was lost to Hugh, whose roving 
i eye had caught sight of a solitary little figure on a 
bench farther up. Hugh took a sudden resolve. He 
had not skated with a girl yet, but he remembered their 
conversation that Sunday evening before the holidays. 
He was going to make a break, and ask Miriam Camp- 
bell. How to get rid of his companion? 

“Look here, Stewart,” said that worthy, abruptly, 
“there’s a girl up there I’m going to have a try for, 
if I don’t break my neck stopping up short. I’ll drop 
you like hot cakes at this next turn, if you don’t mind.”' 

Hugh’s sudden sense of relief was tinged with anxiety 
lest they should have hit on the same girl. But no. 
His friend’s lanky extremities curved in at the far end 
of the line and left him wonderfully free. Yes, there 
she was, in her brown suit, all alone. 

Miriam started at the tall figure bringing up so sud- 
denly beside her. He lifted his hat in salutation. The 


132 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

next moment his skates slid from under him and down 
he went, sprawling on the ice, his big figure sending 
consternation into the hearts of a dozen skaters near. 

There was a roar of laughter from the men and Hugh! 
gained his feet in stern silence. If only he had not asked 
her! If only he could escape! But Miriam was bend- 
ing forward in great sympathy. She had no inclina- 
tion to laugh. But she did feel averse to trusting herself 
with one so shaky. Had she not said definitely, “If 
you’re a good skater” ? However, there was nothing for 
it but to venture; it would hurt his feelings to refuse. 
A moment more and they were swaying up the rink 
together, to the tune of “Just One Girl.” 

Cora spied the two. Fyfe Boulding having deposited 
her at the foot of the steps, she was waiting for Sedley 
to hurry over to meet her. Whom was he watching? 
Oh, Miriam Campbell, with that length of man beside 
her. Cora turned a petulant glance as they passed close 
by, too deeply absorbed in the subject of the projected 
Grant Hall to notice any one else. 

“I’m collecting for my year,” she was telling Hugh. 
“They’re simply splendid, those girls. One of them is 
giving her scholarship money, and one the fees she would 
have paid if she hadn’t had a nomination. And another 
is ‘passe-partouting’ pictures — you wouldn’t think she’d 
make much at that, would you? But what do you think 
of berry-picking? There’s a splendid Highland girl, 
Flora — no, I mustn’t tell names — anyway she said she 
had picked berries a good many summers to make money 
for herself, and she guessed she could do it again for 
Geordie !” 

“My, he’d like to hear that ! I wish you could tell him. 
Some of his Toronto friends think it can never be done. 
They don’t see how we’ll get the money. If they heard 
about the berry-picking, now!” 


SPARKS OF NATURE 133 

“Oh, it’s confidential. Absolutely! Besides Pd never 
dare talk to the Principal so freely.” 

“Why, Miss Campbell, you don’t know him, then. He’s 
the most human and approachable man you ever saw. He 
always calls me by my first name. I met him on the 
campus the very first day and he asked me who I was 
and never forgot.” 

“I thought I met him the very first day, too,” Miriam 
laughed convulsively at the recollection. “But it was 
the janitor. He opened the door for me and was so 
very stately and white-haired and gentlemanly that I 
thought it was the Principal welcoming me to Queen’s. 
But the story got back to Geordie, and he said it was the 
best compliment he had received.” 

Sedley, hearing Hugh’s laugh as they passed, won- 
dered however Miriam had achieved it. Cora was plainly 
cross. 

“Ready to go home, dear?” he asked the next mo- 
ment. 

“I don’t know that I am,” she said. “Everybody’s 
here. Get your skates, Sedley, and come on.” 

“I’m so sorry. I left them home. There’s a great 
crowd anyway.” 

“You always leave them home. I don’t think the 
crowd is bad at all. Where we were, in the centre, 
it’s quite smooth. Fyfe was teaching me the Dutch roll. 
I didn’t know you were coming so soon.” 

“I’ll go home if you like, and let you finish your 
skate.” 

“Nonsense, Sedley! he’s got some one else by this 
time. Goodness ! Look at the fright of a thing he has 
picked up. Oh, how screamingly funny! I believe he’s 
skating with her just for sport. Isn’t he the limit?” 
She laughed immoderately, so that every one around 
turned to see what the joke was. Sedley felt decidedly 


i 3 4 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

uncomfortable. “Can’t I find you a seat somewhere, 
if you don’t want to put off your skates?” 

“No, I’m going up here into the dressing-room.” She 
whirled around and stamped up the stairs without giv- 
ing her husband a chance to help her, throwing up her 
chin as she passed a group of girls. “Here, Sedley,” 
she called, seating herself on a bench just inside the 
door, “come, and unlace my boots, will you ?” 

“I wouldn’t be at her beck and call if I were half a 
man,” one of the younger girls remarked. “If he has 
sense, he’ll pretty soon show her.” 

Sedley felt from the attitude of the roomful that 
Cora’s behaviour was exciting comment. He made up his 
mind, however, to give them no scene. “We’re due at 
Father’s to-night,” he said cheerily, pulling out the laces. 
“We mustn’t forget.” 

“Yes, what’s the aim and object of it? Nothing par- 
ticular, that I can see.” She sighed and yawned, while 
Sedley laced up her walking boots. “Really it’s a bore 
to go out sometimes. Of course, your mother means 
it kindly and all that, but I’d rather be excused.” 

“Telephone and explain. Mother will excuse you.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing to explain. Elizabeth would come 
charging over at once to see if I were sick. She seems 
to look for it, from me.” 

Sedley’s cheeks took on a dull-red tinge. They were 
walking out of the rink now, and Cora had hardly mod- 
ulated her voice. 

“Well, we won’t stay long,” he temporised. “I’ll tell 
Mother you’re tired and that we’re both going to leave 
early.” 

Since Elizabeth and Sedley had married, there was 
room and to spare in the large brick house, but Dr. 
Danvers and his wife enjoyed nothing so much as a fam- 
ily gathering. They welcomed their son and daughter-in- 


SPARKS OF NATURE 135 

law as though they were indeed their own. “I always 
said I thought four children made a perfect family/’ 
Mrs. Danvers would say, “especially if there were two 
girls and two boys. And now I have them.” 

“Any one in?” Tom’s voice sounded from below, but 
Elizabeth was half-way up the stairs. “Are you here, 
mother?” She came into the room, radiant with the 
cold walk. 

Mrs. Danvers scanned her fondly. “You are cold, 
dear. Warm yourself at the fire. Your father spoke of 
driving over for you, but he was called out. Come to 
the fire, Tom!” 

“You do look cosy.” He stretched out his lean hands 
to the blaze. “I’m afraid you won’t get me away to- 
night, Elizabeth.” 

“Well, to-morrow is Sunday. Stay, both of you. The 
house is so lonely that I often think of getting Miriam 
here. I asked her to come in to-night. I thought with 
you and Tom, and Cora and Sedley it would be nice to 
have Miriam as well.” 

“You should have asked Hugh Stewart, then,” Tom 
suggested, “as long as you’re dealing in couples.” 

“Why, is he a special friend of hers? Tom, what do 
you mean? Did you ever see them together?” 

Tom smiled in his slow, provoking fashion. “Yes, I 
have seen them together, more than once.” 

Mrs. Danvers looked perturbed. “I am afraid that 
her mother will think I should have had more of an over- 
sight.” She broke off abruptly. “That must be Miriam 
now. Tom, you must tell me about this afterward. Re- 
member !” 

There were more than Miriam at the door. Sedley 
and Cora came up behind her. Cora’s voice was keyed 
high and she was chattering incessantly. 

“It’s a beastly cold night,” she announced, flinging 


136 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

into the room. “How are you, Mrs. Danvers?” She 
nodded lightly to Elizabeth. “Tom, I want to sit by 
that fire. Will you please move over?” 

“With the greatest possible pleasure,” Tom said, vacat- 
ing chair and all. “Well, Miriam, how are you faring 
this cold weather? Does your landlady keep you 
warm?” 

Cora looked bored. “Sedley, come and sit down like 
a sensible person. Sedley must be peering into every 
one’s books and magazines every place he goes !” 

“Why it’s second nature for Sedley to read in this 
room,” Mrs. Danvers answered, quickly. “Let the boy 
do it if he wants to.” 

“Oh, certainly,” Cora agreed. “He might as well put 
in the time that way.” She yawned covertly. 

Tom felt the blood tingle in his cheeks. He deliberate- 
ly left Miriam’s side and moved over by his sister-in-law, 
resolved to give her the chastisement which he had men- 
tally promised. 

Sedley slipped into the vacant seat by Miriam. 
“Studying hard? You must not overdo it. Could I help 
you ?” 

Cora’s voice broke in on them. “Certainly not,” she 
was saying. “A Professor’s wife would never take prece- 
dence.” 

“But precedence — where?” Tom was following her 
up. 

“In society, among people of the highest standing, 
socially.” 

“And who are they?” 

“Oh, well, my dear fellow, you would not have much 
concern with them, but I may explain that there are 
certain distinctions, certain recognised classes ” 

“But who makes these distinctions? I never heard of 
them.” 


SPARKS OF NATURE 137 

“Possibly not. And I really don’t see how the ques- 
tion concerns you.” 

“Oh, Elizabeth may be a Professor’s wife some of 
these days,” he answered, coolly, “though that cannot 
affect her social standing very seriously. A woman of 
intellect and of gentle spirit always ranks first with 
those whose opinions are worth while.” 

“Whose opinions are worth while!” Cora repeated. 
“Such as pedagogues and patent-medicine men. What 
humbug !” 

Tom’s perfectly controlled and direct gaze discomfited 
her. She moved her chair haughtily an inch or two 
farther from his. He watched her placidly for a full 
minute until she was tingling with wrath. Then he 
turned to see how the others were progressing. 

Mrs. Danvers and Elizabeth were talking quietly at 
one side of the grate. Elizabeth sat on a low wicker 
chair full in the glow of the fire, which flooded her 
warm young figure. She was trying to shut out the 
sound of Cora’s voice, determined that this pleasant 
evening should not be marred. Now and again her 
glance strayed to Sedley where he sat listening 
to Miriam’s tales of the lecture-room and resolutely 
turning a deaf ear to the altercation beyond. 

Into the midst of these several groups came Dr. Dan- 
vers, stamping off snow which still clung to his trou- 
sers — Dr. Danvers, glowing with good cheer and kind- 
liness, his blue eyes bright with the frosty air. 

“Is this what you’re at?” he cried, stooping to kiss 
his wife. “This is comfort, I tell you, after a cold 
drive. Give me the poker, Tom. You don’t know any- 
thing about grate-fires. Does he, Elizabeth?” 

Cora, turning sharply at the doctor’s entrance, was 
incensed at finding every one else so peaceful. Her 


138 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

hawk-like eyes darted from Elizabeth and her mother to 
Miriam and Sedley, and a gleam of anger darkened them. 

“Sedley!” said his young wife, sharply. “Bring my 
muff from the hall-seat. There’s a handkerchief in it 
that I want.” 

Miriam started up in sudden atonement for her pleas- 
ant little time. “I’ll get it, Cora,” she said quickly. 

“No, sit still!” Sedley said, and rose himself. 

Then, whether it was her husband’s tone, or Tom’s 
“dressing-down” or her own ill-nature or everything com- 
bined, Cora’s pretence at decency suddenly toppled over 
and she flew into a whirlwind of anger. 

“Bring my coat, too,” she flamed. “No, I’ll put it on 
there. I’m sick of this high-school drivel.” 

“Hoity-toity !” said Dr. Danvers, swinging around 
with the poker in his hands. “What’s the quarrel? You 
must not run off like that, Cora.” 

“Owen, hush, let her go!” his wife’s cheeks held two 
pink spots. She caught the doctor’s sleeve as he was 
about to follow his daughter-in-law. “Let her go! She 
is in a passion.” 

“Well, but I don’t want any one to get into a passion 
in our home. Let me speak to her.” 

“I wouldn’t waste my good breath on her,” Tom said, 
briefly. 

“No, Father.” Elizabeth came up close to him and 
spoke low. “She is the one to speak to us. She has been 
very rude.” She passed over to where Miriam was 
standing by the couch, biting her lip in distress. “Sit 
down, dear,” Elizabeth coaxed, passing her arm around 
the young girl. “You looked so comfortable among those 
pillows it was just a shame to disturb you.” 

Sedley came in hurriedly. “Mother,” he said, “Cora 
doesn’t feel very well. She wants to go home, now. I 
promised before to tell you we could only stay a little 


SPARKS OF NATURE 139 

while, but I forgot. I’m very sorry.” He smiled in 
his sudden way, even while he spoke. “I’ll say good- 
night for her,” he added. 

“Sedley, are you coming?” called a sharp voice from 
the hall below. He started at the sound and kissed his 
mother quickly. “I was just going to get a cup of tea,” 
she said, reproachfully. 

“I know, I’m awfully sorry. Good night, Dad. Good 
night, Tom.” He shook hands with his brother-in-law, 
gave a smiling nod to Elizabeth and Miriam and hur- 
ried downstairs. The hall door closed quietly the mo- 
ment after. 

Dr. Danvers turned to his wife. “What was it all 
about?” he asked. “What were you doing to her?” 

“Doing to her?” his wife echoed. “Trying to give 
her a pleasant evening.” By her tone one could tell she 
was piqued. She drew herself up resolutely. She would 
not let every one else’s pleasure be marred. “Come, we’ll 
have some tea. Elizabeth will you ring for it? Miriam, 
dear, put your Uncle Owen’s books off the table, over 
on that shelf. We’ll have our tea cosily by the fire. It 
looks quite inviting, Owen. Come, draw your chairs 
closer.” 

Tom obeyed the summons with alacrity. His face 
wore a curiously satisfied expression. 


CHAPTER XIII : COMFORT AND LIGHT 


“Now, GOD be praised, that to believing souls. 

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!” 

— Henry IV, Part II, Act II, Sc. i. 

Mrs. Dan Rutherford was unpacking. She stood in 
the middle of the parlor, which was piled high with 
boxes, and gave orders to her husband and a man from 
the factory as to which next. Baby Vivian, in navy 
blue rompers, was staggering under the weight of a 
hammer that she had discovered near a box of tacks. 

“For mercy sake, Vivian, if that should fall on your 
toes!” Mrs. Rutherford swooped down and wrested the 
tool from tiny tight fingers. A series of squeaks ensued 
and Mr. Rutherford looked up from the roll of carpet 
he was undoing to ask what was wrong. 

“She wants the hammer,” his wife answered briefly. 

“The hammer! I left it out on the landing with the 
tacks !” 

“Well, that’s no place to leave it. She has been reach- 
ing things on the radiator this last week. Put it on the 
mantel. Vivian! She’s after the saw. No, no, you 
naughty baby, you’ll cut yourself!” 

The saw was recovered amid shrieks, and Vivian was 
borne off, stiff-legged, to the pantry, with quieting re- 
sults. Elmer and Claude, who were making the ac- 
quaintance of their new yard, burst in slushily. 

“There’s a kid next door got a dog!” Elmer an- 
nounced. “He’s just come home from school and his 
140 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 


141 

dog’s hitched to his sleigh. Say, Mother, when’s din- 
ner ?” 

'‘Dinner ! Indeed there’ll not be much of any kind 
to-day.” Mrs. Rutherford moved over a pot and poked 
at the fire. 

"Potatoes!” Claude called out. "That’s what I like. 
When’ll they be done?” 

"Clara!” her husband demanded, "show me where you 
want this red carpet put.” 

His wife bundled the baby into the high chair with 
two soda crackers, gave one each to the boys, bidding 
them be off to the yard, thrust in some packing-box 
splinters to hasten the fire, and bustled in to the front 
hall. 

The Rutherfords were getting settled quickly. The 
Cherry Cordial Company having spread itself beyond the 
capacity of its foundling home, the directors and owners, 
chiefly personated by Daniel Webster Rutherford, had 
moved the plant into the city of Kingston. It was with 
absolute complacency that Mrs. Dan viewed her future 
life in the University city. 

"Clara! There’s some one at the front door! Can 
you go down?” Her husband’s mouth was full of tacks 
and he spoke thickly. 

"No, don’t come down, any one,” a voice called out. 
"It’s Elizabeth. I’ll come up if I may.” 

Clara Rutherford gave one scandalised glance from 
her working garb to her husband. He nodded em- 
phatically. If there was one thing on which Dan Ruther- 
ford was emphatic it was his sister-in-law, Elizabeth. 

"Come on!” he roared, spilling some of the tacks. 
"We’re up in the front room.” 

Elizabeth appeared at the turn of the stairs a moment 
later with a covered dish in her hands. "I might have 
left it downstairs,” she apologised. "It’s just some cold 


142 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

pressed beef, Clara. I knew you wouldn’t have time to 
cook.” 

Gara smiled ironically. “Not much time for making 
pressed beef,” she said. “I don’t eat it myself, thank 
you, but the boys will like it.” 

“It’s very good of you to take the trouble,” her hus- 
band hastened to add. “I feel like starting at it right 
away, I’m nearly famished.” 

Elizabeth laughed pleasantly. 

“I’m glad it is so timely.” She glanced around un- 
certainly. “Can I do anything to help you, Clara?” 

Clara privately wished her miles away. “I really don’t 
believe there is just now,” she said elaborately. “It’s 
just a case of arrangement and judgment. We’re getting 
on real well, but the children are nuisances. There’s Baby 
now,” she started on the usual plump scramble down- 
stairs. 

Elizabeth followed a moment after. “Clara!” she 
called from the hallway. “Won’t you let me take Baby 
for the afternoon? Tom and I will bring her back 
this evening, unless you’d let her stay all night.” 

“Oh, no, she’d never go to sleep away from home. 
Well, I’m almost afraid to let her go, Elizabeth, though 
I’m sure you mean it kindly. There’s that long walk 
out by the lake shore to your home. The air would be 
raw and Vivian is croupy, just like Claude. Now Elmer 
never had throat trouble; his colds always go to his nose. 
You’re kind, I know, but — you see, Elizabeth, you haven’t 
had anything to do with children.” 

“No!” said Elizabeth, whimsically, “I haven’t. Then 
suppose I take Baby to mother’s for this afternoon. 
Mother would be charmed and it isn’t far. There’s Daddie 
to call in too, if anything happens,” she added laughingly. 

Yes, this suited Clara Rutherford to a science. She 
was anxious to cultivate Mrs. “Doctor” Danvers, and 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 143 

Vivian would prove the thin edge, stout little body though 
she was. 

“Where’s Vivian going?” Claude demanded, stamping 
on to the verandah, as Baby, clad in bearskin, was being 
packed into her sleigh. 

“How do you do, Claude?” said his Aunt Elizabeth, 
holding out her hand. “Won’t you come and shake 
hands? I was at your home last summer. Don’t you 
remember ?” 

He nodded sagely. “I remember all right. We had 
two kinds of pie, and ice-cream.” 

“Sure!” said Elmer easily. “And I got licked for 
giving some to Nellie’s baby.” 

Their mother feared further disclosures. “Aunt Eliza- 
beth brought something good,” she told them, mysteri- 
ously, “Upstairs on the sewing machine in the hall.” 

“I’ll take good care of Baby,” Elizabeth assured her. 

“Oh, I guess she’ll be all right,” Mrs. Dan agreed, 
diving out to coil another fold around the choked-up 
throat. “Keep her back to the wind when you turn 
the corner!” Then, retreating, “Don’t let her see me 
go in.” With that she shot back into the house and Miss 
Vivian who could not turn in any case, so wadded was 
she, gazed blandly before her. This was an improve- 
ment on the high chair. 

Down Barrie Street the snow had almost disappeared 
from the sidewalk, and Elizabeth struck out into the 
middle of the road. One or two stray people passing 
along at this quiet noon hour glanced curiously from 
the sleigh to the propeller, knowing Elizabeth but not 
being able to place the baby. Elizabeth felt a certain 
fitness in the way her hands closed over that sleigh 
handle. It was beautiful to “pretend,” out here in the 
sweet Spring air, with the noontide hush and the warm 
caress of the sun’s strong rays high in the heavens above. 


i 4 4 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Up across the park two students were coming, a 
man and a maid. Now they assumed a familiar guise. 
Miriam surely it was, and the man Fyfe Boulding. 
Leisurely they sauntered, in that calm indolence which 
release from a long and strenuous winter engenders. 

“Elizabeth !” the girl’s voice called suddenly. “I didn’t 
know it was you. Whose baby have you got?” 

Elizabeth came swiftly round the front of the sleigh 
as she acknowledged the greeting. “Why, she’s fast 
asleep, the pet,” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees. 
“And her poor wee head is bobbing all round so uncom- 
fortably! It’s my brother Dan’s little girl,” she explained. 
“They’re just moving in and I’ve captured Baby for the 
afternoon.” 

Miriam stooped to view the drowsy cherub. “Isn’t 
she terribly fat?” she murmured, touching one bloated 
wrist, where the red mitts fell too short. Fyfe flecked a 
thread off his coat-sleeve, glancing sideways at the group. 
“Delightful air for sleeping, but bad walking,” he re- 
marked. 

“I never think of the slush until I go in over my boot 
tops,” Miriam remarked ingenuously. “Fyfe is always 
calling out warnings.” 

He glanced pensively at the hem of her skirt. “I look 
out for the puddles and Miriam watches the sky.” 

Elizabeth was moving on. “I must get this little 
one over to Mother’s,” she said pleasantly. “Are you 
going to lectures this afternoon, Miriam, or can you 
come over, too, later on?” 

“I’m going to review my note-books. Otherwise I’d 
love to come.” 

“ ‘Cram’ she means,” said young Boulding, “only the 
word savours of illegality, so we prefer to say review.” 

“Of course we do,” Miriam retorted. “You only call 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 145 

it cramming the last few days, and we have nearly three 
weeks yet. There’s only one week of March gone.” 

‘Three whole weeks,” he repeated languidly. 

“ "Why should we only toil and make perpetual moan 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown V ” 

He kept quoting under his breath, even after Eliza- 
beth and the baby-sleigh had disappeared into Dr. Dan- 
vers’ and they continued their slow walk up the side 
streets. He had branched off from Tennyson to Omar. 

“ Then to the lip of this poor earthen urn 
I leaned — the secret of my life to learn; 

And lip to lip it murmured — while you live 
Drink — for, once dead, you never shall return/ 

“That’s pretty much my philosophy of life,” was his 
comment. 

“It’s not!” Miriam said indignantly. 

“Yes, just about,” he drawled. 

“You don’t really believe it, though,” Miriam pro- 
tested. “It’s a — it’s a hideous belief. I just feel like 
quoting, Thou fool! This night thy soul shall be re- 
quired of thee !’ ” 

In Fyfe’s glance surprise mingled with amusement. 

“Well,” he said deliberately, “prove that this isn’t the 
be-all and end-all.” 

“Prove it!” the girl scoffed. “How do you want it 
proved? By mathematics? You explain to me who 
puts the longing in your heart for something beyond, 
and then tell me would the longing be there if there was 
nothing to meet it?” Where she had come upon this 
idea she did not really know, but it met the case. 

Fyfe was plainly cornered. He walked on in puzzled 
amusement. “You’re a theologian as well as a philosopher 
and a poet,” he reflected. “But see now, supposing I 


146 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

don’t admit that every one has that longing for some- 
thing beyond? I’ve never felt it.” 

“Oh, it’s there, but it’s dormant,” Miriam answered 
sagely. “It’s in your subconsciousness.” 

Fyfe was just going to ask where that was, when a 
sleigh bell behind made them step to one side, at the 
edge of the crossing. Dr. Danvers reined in his horse 
to speak to them. 

“Miriam,” he leant down and nodded to the girl to 
come nearer, his quick eyes noting her companion. 
“Elizabeth told me you were along here. I’ve just come 
from seeing your little Jewish friend, Rachael.” He 
flecked the lines over the horse’s back. “She’s not much 
longer for this world.” 

Miriam started back, consternation in her face. “Why, 
Uncle, I never knew she was so sick. Just a low fever, 
they told me. Poor, dear Rachael!” 

The girl’s eyes were blinded by a sudden rush of 
tears. She turned her head quickly, biting her lip. 

Dr. Danvers drew the lap-rug round him and gathered 
up the lines. His own face was agitated. “I thought 
probably you would like to know,” he said simply. 

Miriam nodded. Then in a moment, “Would it hurt 
her — could I go to see her?” she asked in an uncer- 
tain voice. 

“No, it wouldn’t hurt her — for a few minutes. She 
asked for you. She isn’t suffering, mercifully, poor girl. 
But I wouldn’t lose any time.” He touched up his horse 
and the cutter sped away. 

Miriam stepped back from the crossing, her face 
averted. 

“Bad news?” said her cousin leisurely. 

“Yes, I’ll have to say 'good-afternoon.’ ” Miriam 
choked over the words. “There’s a friend of mine — you 
know Rachael yourself — she is dying.” Her voice trailed 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 147 

away into tears. She turned from him and hurried 
down a side street. 

The man looked after her a moment in serious con- 
templation. “Strange, too,” he said to himself, “the 
turn our conversation had taken.” He turned again 
to look after the girl’s retreating figure. 

Down the long street Miriam hastened, her thoughts 
in a tumult, her heart beating madly, until she stopped 
before Rachael’s house. Many a time she had walked 
home from lectures with Rachael, in the sunny noon, 
and Rachael’s little sister with the long, black curls would 
come dancing up the street to meet them. Now every- 
thing was quiet. The house Miriam knew well. It was 
taller than any in the block, tall and narrow and un- 
adorned. She rapped quietly, and a Jewess opened the 
door. A faint gleam of recognition crossed her face at 
sight of the girl. 

“Dr. Danvers thought I might see Rachael for a min- 
ute,” she said in a low tone. “I’m Miriam Campbell, 
his niece, a college friend. Do you think she would care 
to see me?” 

The woman went inside, and in a moment Rachael’s 
mother appeared, her face white with sorrow. 

“Come in,” she said brokenly. “Rachael was speaking 
of you only this morning. Come upstairs. Oh, my poor 
dear, she’s going to leave me.” 

It was all Miriam could do to keep from bursting into 
sobs, but she straightened herself resolutely and followed 
the mother up the steep staircase. In the side room at 
the head of the stairs the young girl lay, her raven 
hair across the pillow. Her poor, white face was turned 
to the door as they entered and when she saw her 
fellow-student her dark eyes were luminous with joy. 
Miriam felt a convulsive tightening of her heart. She 
leant over and touched the Jewish girl’s hand. “Poor, 


148 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

dear Rachael,” she said, and wondered at her own quiet- 
ness. “We all miss you so much. It doesn’t seem like 
college without you.” 

Rachael’s hands closed over hers, clammy, inert. “Give 
the girls my love,” she whispered. “They’re all so good 
to me.” Then she closed her dark eyes wearily. “I 
couldn’t study,” she murmured, “I got so tired! That 
philosophy! Isn’t it hard!” 

She opened her eyes again and looked towards the 
little table by the window. All her college books were 
there. The text-books and note-books piled up neatly, 
and the fountain pen and her poor glasses lying beside 
them — all so idle. If a dagger had pierced her heart 
Miriam could not have felt more pain than she did at 
that moment. To bid good-bye to it all, when you had 
just begun. To feel too tired to study, and to pile up 
your college books and lie down beside them to die, 
how pitiful! how pitiful! 

She bent over the girl again. “I must go, Rachael,” 
she said huskily. “I’ll give your message to the girls. 
Rachael, we all love you so.” In an excess of emotion 
she bent and kissed the poor, white face. Then, lest 
she forget herself in a torrent of tears, she turned and 
fled from the room. 

Blindly she stumbled down the stairs and out into 
the sunshine. Somehow she found her boarding-house 
and the shelter of her room. There she could give full 
vent to her grief. 

Next morning at college Miriam learned that Rachel’s 
pure spirit had taken its flight. It was a still Spring 
morning, with the sound of the twittering of birds and 
the first warm breath of reviving nature. A whisper of 
life and hope seemed to breathe in the air. Oh, for 
Rachael there must be an awakening too, far more glori- 
ous, far more permanent than the coming-in of Spring. 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 149 

“And think, girls, she has gone,’’ the voice at Miriam's! 
elbow startled her. One of the senior girls was speaking. 
“Gone! that poor Jewish girl, no one knows whither, and 
I wonder if any of us ever tried to win her to believe 
in Christ?" 

Miriam winced. No, she had never tried. But she 
remembered Rachael's face at the Y. W. meeting, the 
way she had sung, 

“Hold Thou my hand, so weak I am and helpless, 

I dare not take one step without Thine aid.” 

Rachael would not cross that lone river unaided. A 
light would flash along its waters, a hand would be out- 
stretched to her in her weakness, and the poor little 
Jewess, tired with her struggle to know, would be brought 
safely home. 

How Rachael would have marvelled at that concourse 
of students and professors who thronged the tall house 
and listened to the Rabbi's words of consolation ! 
Miriam, seeing Hugh Stewart in the throng, wished 
Rachael could have known. 

Perhaps Rachael did know. She knew more than any 
one now. The price she had paid was the utmost. She 
had given her life for the knowledge. Miriam tried 
to tell Hugh something of her thought. He had come 
up with her and was walking by her side. “One could 
almost wish to make the venture for oneself," she said. 

He answered quite simply, “We’ll have eternity for 
that." 

Miriam spoke eagerly. “You could never say that this 
is the be-all and end-all, could you?" 

Hugh did not refute with vehemence. His thoughtful, 
deliberate attitude showed how he had won through. 
“I was seeing something last night about this very ques- 
tion, in Henry Drummond’s Addresses." He did not 


1 5 o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

realise how amazed the girl was at his choice of book. 
“I don’t know that I can remember it exactly, but it was 
something like this, — To love abundantly is to live 
abundantly, and to love forever is to live forever.’ ” 

“ That’s beautiful!” Miriam answered. And half to 
herself and in claim of the promise for her friend, she 
added, “And Rachael did love abundantly. You didn’t 
know her personally, did you?” 

“No, I’m awfully sorry. I never got to meet her. We 
were to have received the crowd at our year ‘At Home,’ 
but she wouldn’t have known me to see me.” 

Quietly Miriam folded away her friend’s secret in 
the sacred recesses of memory. 

There followed days of close study. Examinations 
were in the air. Long, hard hours of discipline when the 
boarding-house seemed intolerable, and the narrow con- 
fines of her room well-nigh suffocating. When the 
bright Spring sun showed up the Winter’s dust and the 
bird-notes from the muddy streets and the stir of Spring 
air at her bedroom curtains made text-books a positive 
cross. Dreamy afternoons, which were meant for wan- 
dering along country roads, but which she must spend 
in her hall-bedroom or up in the deserted college library, 
between rows of musty tomes, depressing in their gravity. 
Days when the college halls were practically deserted, 
and the bulletin boards showed ragged scraps of ancient 
notices fluttering forgotten, when the rink was closed 
and all gaiety at an end, and only the stern, cold fact 
of study and examinations faced the student. 

And at last came the days of the trial, when Convo- 
cation Hall was turned into a vast arena, where the com- 
petitors gathered in mortal combat and the witnesses 
were those bygone seers on the wall who, unmoved, had 
witnessed many a struggle, from their eventual element 
of calm, and whose lofty gaze inspired the frantic souls 


COMFORT AND LIGHT 15 1 

below still to fight on. Elbowed by a science man on the 
one hand, by a theologian on the other, Miriam wrote 
away. All her store of hardly- won knowledge was reg- 
istered once for all on paper, before the cares of this 
work-a-day world should have blotted it out. There was 
something fitting in the act, and a feeling of triumph 
visited those well-doers who were enabled to give an ac- 
count at last of the laborious days they had lived. 

Reward came speedily. For when the bulletin board 
was hoisted in the hall, one spotless, April morning, with 
the results of examinations posted thereon, Miriam Camp- 
bell’s name figured conspicuously, and her heart sang 
with the jubilant birds, “I have attained! I have at- 
tained !” 


CHAPTER XIV: THE NARROW GATE 


"I am for the house with the narrow gate, which 
I take to be too little for pomp to enter.” 

—All's Well That Ends Well , Act IV, Sc. 5. 

It was the middle of August, and a hot wave was 
passing over Eastern Ontario. Ottawa lay baked in its 
fierce rays. The business streets were patronised by 
those alone whom stern duty summoned thither. In the 
residential districts the great majority of the houses 
were closed. A general air of midsummer desertion 
was abroad. But even in this summer solstice there were 
some brave spirits whom lapping waves and sylvan nooks 
enticed in vain — fathers and husbands and brothers who 
toiled in the city’s heat that they might send fat cheques 
to meet hotel bills or pay the rent of. summer cottages. 

The Campbells’ home was less lonely that its neigh- 
bours. The blinds in two or three windows were raised 
in the cool of the day, and the verandah chairs were 
always occupied after sunset. Mr. Campbell came home 
about five o’clock lagging his tired steps from the car. 
He was looking thin and worn, more than usually so, 
Miriam thought. Indeed it was no wonder. She often 
drooped herself, for the care of the housekeeping fell 
largely on her shoulders during her mother’s absence. 

Pauline was the visible head, but she exercised her 
authority in dictation rather than action. For all those 
numberless routine tasks of an orderly household it was 
Miriam who stepped into the breach and kept things 
running smoothly. 


152 


THE NARROW GATE 153 

“Miriam is beginning to wake up,” Pauline told her 
father. “Coming from college she’s like a moon-struck 
calf. It’s only when she’s home for a while that she be- 
gins to act like a rational being. There’s the advan- 
tage over the collegiate. She has five months with the 
family.” 

Her father turned over the morning paper reflectively. 
“Miriam is doing very well,” he said. “She took a high 
stand on her Spring examinations.” 

“Oh, that’s no credit to her, Father. Exams, are sec- 
ond nature to Miriam. She scribbles at a lightning rate. 
She’s got your good memory.” 

Her father revolved this statement. “One requires 
more than a good memory and easy pen to succeed in 
University work,” he pronounced. 

“Oh, yes, I know,” Pauline nodded vaguely. “Miriam 
puts on a very profound air and gives off some views 
she has read or heard as if they were her own, and it 
makes an impression. Oh, she’s cute. I’ll say that for 
her. And then she’s got good eyesight.” Pauline took 
off her glasses and polished them complacently, regarding 
them as the explanation of Miriam’s apparent advantage. 

“Where is she now?” her father asked, folding up his 
newspaper. 

“Oh, sitting on the verandah, with some book or other. 
She thinks she has to keep up the character of student. 
So she drapes herself over a chair with one of the poets. 
I don’t believe she reads a word of it, but she pretends 
to be deep in, and jumps when you speak to her.” 

Her father laughed in his tired way. “I thought you 
said she was waking up,” he said, going towards the hall 
for his hat. “Whew ! It’s going to be a warm day. I’m 
really afraid of it. I’m glad your mother is coming home 
to-night.” 

“Oh, Miriam’s better all right.” Pauline assured him, 


154 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

not heeding the latter part of his remark. “She’s got a 
fad just now for housework, to impress you, I suppose.” 

Thud! went the mail into the letter-box. The post- 
man’s quick step died away on the pavement. 

Pauline pulled out the letters. She started at the post- 
mark of the first one in blank dismay. “Toronto! But 
it’s from Aunt Victoria. I hope to goodness she’s not 
coming here. I’m going to open it, Father.” 

Aunt Victoria, Mrs. Nat. Boulding as they called her 
in the West, was the only self-invited guest tolerated by 
Mrs. Campbell. But, sharing her sister Laura’s dislike 
of visitors, she always made a great show of registering 
at the most expensive hotel when in town, a plain hint 
to all others to do likewise when in her home city. Such 
was her intention this time, as her letter explained. She 
and Nathaniel and Fyfe were on their way to Prince 
Edward Island and would be in Ottawa for a couple of 
days at the Rideau. 

“That means they’ll be in here this afternoon,” Pauline 
said, noting the address. “And we’ll have to have them 
up for dinner.” 

The telephone whirred beside her. Pauline flew to it. 

“Yes,” she said, “Miss Campbell is speaking. Why, 
is it you ? When did you strike town? We just heard 
from your mother. Yes, I’m keeping house for father. 
Mother is up the Ottawa. Oh, yes, she’s here. Isn’t it 
hot! Well, I couldn’t leave father to hold the fort alone. 
Now you’re trying to be funny. No, really. All right, 
I’ll be delighted. Come in for dinner. Yes, I’ll be at home 
all evening. No, I’m expecting you all. Bye-bye.” 

She hung up the receiver. “That’s Fyfe himself,” she 
told her father. “He must have come in ahead on the 
morning train. See here, kid,” she called out to Miriam 
on the verandah, “I hope you haven’t given Tessie any 
fool orders about tea. We’ll have dinner to-night. The 


THE NARROW GATE 155 

Bouldings will all be here on their way to Prince Edward 
Island.” 

Miriam’s expression reflected her surprise and dismay. 
She put her book away in the library. 

Then there were hurryings to and fro, and the brisk 
ting of the telephone, and re-arrangement of the rooms, 
and adornment of the verandah, so that the day sped by 
on eagle’s wings. “I’ll go down Sparks Street and get 
some fresh flowers,” Pauline said early in the afternoon. 
“You can’t choose them by telephone.” Miriam glanced 
up from the paper she was reading. “There are lots of 
nasturtiums in the yard.” 

“Nonsense, nasturtiums! Now you might leave that 
paper for once, Miriam, and help with things. I’ll be 
back soon. But Tessie may need help.” 

Tessie did need help. Pauline had not been gone ten 
minutes when a sharp cry from the pantry sent Miriam’s 
paper flying to the floor while she ran to the scene of 
the accident. The girl had cut her hand so badly that 
further help from her was impossible. Weak and pale, 
she must go to her room to lie down. Miriam was faced 
with the unfinished dinner. What was keeping Pauline? 

She hurried on an apron and cut up the chicken, at 
which poor Tessie had so blundered. Then she attacked 
the vegetables. Pauline came in just as she finished, ex- 
claiming at the lateness of the hour. 

“Tessie hurt? Oh, the poor creature! I’ll go up and 
see her.” 

Miriam went in to set the table. It was a very close 
afternoon and she was tired with the strain and excite- 
ment of the last hour. Six places, yes, and everything 
must be irreproachable. For the Bouldings were accus- 
tomed to these things in their own home and must see 
the Campbells were accustomed to them, too. 

Pauline came hurrying down, red and perturbed. 


156 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“She’s going to sleep, the pain’s a little easier. Oh, you 
set the table! All right, I’ll fix the flowers. What an 
awful mess of things! Why couldn’t she be more care- 
ful?” 

“Was there to be salad, Pauline? I’ll try that now.” 

“Very well, then, Miriam, that’s in your line, chopping 
things up. You really make good mayonnaise. You get 
it smooth. But for pity’s sake don’t put in too much 
mustard. The chicken’s all right” — peering into the pot, 
— “and you’ve got the vegetables here. Oh, what heat! 
Keep the pantry-door closed or the dining-room will be 
scorching. Has the ice-cream come? Well, I’ll telephone 
for that , and then I’ll get dressed myself, so there’ll be 
one person presentable. It never takes you a minute to 
dress. You slide into your clothes.” 

Three-quarters of an hour later Pauline, arrayed in a 
rose-coloured muslin, rustled down the stairs. “How are 
you getting on, child ? My, what a roaring fire ! I’m sure 
you don’t need all that heat. Don’t put the oysters in 
the soup till the last minute. They’ll shrivel. It smells 
as though the peas were burning. You remember you 
let the turnips burn once, reading Shakespeare. You’re 
getting over that idea that it’s learned not to know how* 
to cook vegetables. There’s father. For pity’s sake, 
Miriam, get yourself fixed up.” 

Mr. Campbell came in laggingly, his face very pale, 
and dropped into his own chair at the table. Pauline 
called out to him. “Please don’t disturb anything, Father. 
We’ve had to cook the dinner. Tessie’s sick.” 

“That should not be a hardship for great girls like 
you. You’ve done it before.” 

“Well, it’s no fun with three visitors, and in this heat.” 

“Oh, you don’t know what heat is, up here,” her father 
answered wearily. 


THE NARROW GATE 157 

“I’ve been in town, too,” Pauline assured him. “See 
the roses? I went away down for them/’ 

He looked at her fresh face and sighed again. These 
young things did not feel the strain of the weather. 

Prancing hoofs on the paved street, a prolonged 
“Whoa-a!” and Pauline, who was posing on the verandah 
with one of Miriam’s despised books, bounded up with a 
well-arranged outburst of delight, and charged down 
the steps, Miriam following deliberately. 

A large, much-dressed woman with remarkably raven 
locks and a prominent nose was delivering herself from 
the confines of the cab, guarding her gown and backing 
down so carefully that Pauline’s store of exuberant greet- 
ings had nearly oozed away before she reached the curb. 
She atoned for that by flinging her arms around her 
aunt’s neck, but carefully, knowing of old that no fervour 
of embrace could atone for a disarranged toilette. 

The prominent nose brushed against her cheek, and 
Aunt Victoria enquired, “How are you, Pauline?” 

Pauline assured her that she was really awfully well, 
and pushed Miriam forward to do her duty. Uncle 
Nathaniel, a pale, nervous man, known as his wife’s hus- 
band, was paying the cabman, while Fyfe lounged nearby. 

Miriam thought, now as always, that he looked just a 
bigger edition of the boy who had eaten her sweets, and 
she shook hands with no show of great joy. 

“Your mother is away, you say?” Aunt Victoria re- 
marked, ascending the stairs. “Up the Ottawa ? Indeed 1 
She did not tell me! Your stair-carpet is wearing very 
well. I have something like it for my summer home.” 
From Mrs. Boulding’s possessive adjectives one would 
fancy that she lived in solitary state. “And are you man- 
aging for yourselves, you girls ?” 

Pauline told her of the accident, dwelling on her share 


158 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

in the domestic economy. “And what about Miriam? Is 
she better at Greek than peeling potatoes?” 

Pauline’s laugh was a little deprecating. It was not 
for her to be hard on her sister. 

Her Aunt Victoria watched her sharply. “I hope Miri- 
am is not growing up selfish. I remember as a child she 
was quite greedy over a box of candy.” 

Just then the dinner-bell sounded. Miriam had the soup 
on the table. 

It was a queer dinner-party. Mr. Campbell, looking 
very sick, sat at the end of the table trying to take an 
interest in his brother-in-law’s tales of the Western 
crops ; Pauline doing the honours at the other end, divided 
her smiling personalities; while Miriam was subjected to 
a gruelling cross-examination by her aunt. 

Mrs. Nathaniel Boulding appeared to have some quar- 
rel with higher education. She challenged the right to 
existence of all institutions of learning. It was effront- 
ery for any young girl to presume to push her studies 
beyond a certain grade. Was it because her son was 
always falling before these higher standards? Or did 
she see that this young college student was judging her 
cousin with a cool scrutiny which held no admiration? 
However it was, her Aunt Victoria viewed as both selfish 
and unmaidenly the spending of money and time in that 
way, while “dear Pauline, the elder sister,” was com- 
pelled to stay quietly at home. 

Fyfe had one ear open for this conversation. He stole 
constant glances at her face during the harangue and he 
seemed to enjoy her discomfiture. What was really 
worrying Miriam was not her aunt’s foolish attack, but 
the thought of the girl in pain upstairs, the responsibility 
for the dinner, and especially her father’s drawn face. 
Did none of them see that he looked sick? No, they 


THE NARROW GATE 


159 

seemed quite oblivious to anything but their own con- 
versation. 

Mrs. Boulding was describing a function she had at- 
tended in Regina. “And Judge Stewart was there, too,” 
she concluded. “I forgot him. Strangely, too, for he 
was the best-looking man in the room, and he took me 
out to supper. He was in full Highland toggery — the 
kilts, you know,” with a little nod to Mr. Campbell par- 
ticularly, as one who was eager for that sort of thing. 

“I met him last summer. He is fine-looking. I should 
think he would look splendid in the kilts.” This from 
Miriam. 

Pauline suspended operations on her dinner. “Where 
did you meet him?” 

“At his brother’s home in Cape Breton,” Miriam an- 
swered simply. “Tom Angus Stewart, you know, father.” 

“Oh, Tommy Aonais Bhain (Tommy, son of fair 
Angus),” her father rejoined, brightening a little. “Why 
I had forgotten his brother Hugh was out there — ‘Eog- 
hain Dhu’ (Black Hugh) we boys used to call him. A 
great lad he was. He married a music-teacher.” 

“He hasn’t forgotten you,” Miriam remarked. “He’s 
got all sorts of stories about you. His wife was a music- 
teacher. They say she plays beautifully.” 

Mrs. Boulding, annoyed to find that her distinguished 
Westerner was common property with a farmer brother, 
changed the subject abruptly. “How delicious this salad 
is !” she observed, smiling in Pauline’s direction. 

Miriam let it pass. If Pauline wanted to claim the 
honour of the dinner let her have it. So long as it was 
delicious she did not mind. 

“And your mother returns on the evening train,” 
Aunt Victoria continued. “She should be in soon now.” 

Mr. Campbell started, and looked at his watch. “I 
think you will have to excuse me,” he said, and rose from 


160 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

the table. Then his face turned white and he dropped 
down into his chair again. 

Both girls jumped from their places and ran to him. 
It was a weak turn, he said, and he felt better when he 
drank a glass of water. 

“It’s an awfully close night, don’t you know,” Fyfe 
observed, solicitously. 

“It certainly is oppressive,” Mrs. Boulding concurred. 

“If it was the prairies now, you’d have a breeze spring- 
ing up to cool things off. Great winds there.” This from 
“Nat” Boulding. 

“You ought to try a little Scotch, Uncle. Nothing like 
that for putting ginger into you.” 

“We’ll go out to the verandah,” Pauline announced. 
“Father, you’re not going to try to meet that train? 
Mother can drive up quite easily.” 

“Certainly Laura can take a carriage,” her sister 
agreed. 

“Well, then, I’ll lie down,” he said, acquiescing. 

They trooped out to the verandah, all except Miriam. 
She followed her father into the library, making him 
comfortable on the couch. 

“Could I bathe your forehead, Father?” 

“No, dear, I think not. Perhaps you ought to go out 
and try to make things pleasant for your aunt. I’ll take 
a little nap, if you leave me.” 

Very reluctantly the girl withdrew, and, passing around 
the front of the house, found them all on the side veran- 
dah. Fyfe, stretched along the railing, turned his head 
as she approached. 

“Who’s the pretty girl across the street?” he asked 
her. 

“Where? Oh, yes, the doctor’s daughter, Jessie,” 
Miriam told him. “Shall I call her to come over?” 


THE NARROW GATE 161 

Pauline frowned menacingly. She was afraid of Fyfe’s 
susceptible heart. 

“Oh, not on my account,” her cousin yawned. 
“ ‘Jessie’ stirs tender memories, all the same. First! 
money I ever made was on a Lady Jessie. Fine beast 
she was.” 

His mother coughed hurriedly to cover his remark. 

“You mean the first money you ever lost,” his father 
said, curtly, not being so astute as his wife. 

Fyfe laughed lightly at the counter charge. He had 
moved over and was sitting beside Mr. Boulding on one 
of the rustic seats, while Pauline, swaying engagingly 
in the hammock, was carrying on a very confidential chat 
with her Aunt Victoria. 

Miriam looked out through the darkness of the Sum- 
mer evening. The soft night breeze came in to her, laden 
with the scent of flowers from the doctor’s garden oppo- 
site. She thought of Cape Breton. Oh, to be driving 
on the road by Chursty’s now, along the shore of the lake ! 
Would Hugh have got her letter by this time? 

A bicycle glided into the shaft of light from the hall- 
door. Fastening the pedal against the curb, the boy 
walked up the front steps. 

“Telegram!” he said. 

There was a movement at the end of the verandah, a 
rustle and stir, and Pauline, pink and excited, came into 
view, as Miriam was signing. 

“Who’s it for?” she demanded. 

“For father,” Miriam said, turning it over uncertainly. 

“He’s gone upstairs. Give it here.” 

“No, he’s asleep on the couch. But I don’t like to 
disturb him. He’s not well.” 

“What is it, Miriam?” a voice called from the library. 
“Bring it to me.” Miriam went in reluctantly. 

Pauline yawned in the darkness. Then she clicked on 


162 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

the electric bulb. The yellow light flooded the verandah, 
dispelling the shadows, and Fyfe Boulding turned his 
head enquiringly. 

“Closing up time?” he drawled. “When does the 
whistle blow?” 


CHAPTER XV: MINGLED YARN 


“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good 
and ill together.” 

—All's Well That Ends Well , Act IV, Sc. 3. 

“That’s the last of this college business for Miriam,” 
Pauline remarked. “I hope she understands that.” She 
looked towards her sister aggressively. “Now don’t go 
into the sulks over it,” she added. 

September was nearly over and still the father lay in 
his room, weak and sick and spiritless. His long struggle 
through the dog-days had been unnerving and the shock 
of the bank failure involving the savings of a lifetime 
had completely prostrated him. Now, by the physician’s 
orders, he was faced with an indefinite period of idleness. 
With no salary and no savings the fortunes of the Camp- 
bell family must suffer a severe reversal. Their home 
must be sold, later, when Mr. Campbell could be moved. 
Meantime the question of Miriam’s education was to the 
fore. 

Mrs. Campbell had grown morbid since the night that 
her holiday had been ironically climaxed by her husband’s 
illness. She looked at her daughter tearfully. 

“College fees and poverty do not consort well with one 
another, Miriam.” 

“I wish we had the money father put into them last 
year,” Pauline pursued. 

Miriam spoke. “In one way we have. I never would 
have got into kindergarten without my college standing; 
there are so many applicants.” 

Plainly this was news. That Miriam was provided for, 
163 


164 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

that she could so coolly view the prospect of breaking up 
her whole course, came as a great surprise. Pauline be- 
came promptly suspicious. 

“You can’t save and go to college later. If that’s her 
idea, Mother, you’d better tell her to give it up. Miriam 
will simply live on the excitement of college at some future 
glorious day, and go around working, strained and fever- 
ish, and living an unnatural life. Besides, Miriam, you’ll 
have to give your money to the family.” 

“What are you going to do, Pauline ?” her sister asked, 
directly. 

Pauline assumed her important look. “I expect I’ll be 
needed at home for the present,” she conceded. “I haven’t 
made any definite plans for later.” 

“In any case, girls,” Mrs. Campbell roused herself to 
say, “there is no need of discussing our family affairs 
with outsiders. As for the kindergarten, Miriam, I quite 
approve of it for you, meantime. You have had the year 
of Kingston, in any case.” 

And then came Uncle Owen’s letter. Would Miriam 
ever forget that morning? How the sun can break 
through a bank of storm-clouds heaped-up, impenetrable, 
and with its golden darts shatter them to fragments ! 

Miriam must finish her course at the University. This 
was her uncle’s fiat. Looking at the matter merely from 
a business standpoint, as he said, a little money invested 
now in enabling her to graduate would yield far greater 
returns later. Moreover, it was a pity to deprive her of 
an experience which would be such an asset in the build- 
ing up of her character, and which she evidently appre- 
ciated and profited by. She must make her home with 
them. They were lonely with no young people. As for 
the fees, he had a nomination available this year. He 
enclosed a liberal cheque for travelling and outfitting. 

“Uncle Owen is an old dear!” said Pauline. “But he 


MINGLED YARN 


165 

has the same exalted notion of college that every Queen's 
person has. When has your character developed so mar- 
vellously, Miriam?” 

“I dislike accepting Owen’s offer,” the mother pro- 
tested. “It puts me under an obligation.” 

“No, it is we who are generous in parting with Miri- 
am,” the father had returned. 

This was the conversation which Miriam was recalling 
that Autumn afternoon. She was walking along the lake- 
shore in the glow of sunset. Maple leaves, riotously 
tinted, carpeted the walks. Summer was going out in a 
great passion of colour. 

She did not know that her eyes reflected the beauty 
of sky and lake, that the purity of her thought was mir- 
rored in her face. But she felt a sudden pleasure that 
the one who joined her at this moment had himself known 
scenes of beauty. 

Hugh Stewart’s quick smile showed his interest in the 
meeting. 

“Isn’t this lake glorious?” she said. 

He fell into step beside her. “Isn’t it? Almost as glo- 
rious as the Little Bras d’Or.” 

“I suppose you really put the Bras d’Or ahead of Lake 
Ontario,” she mused. 

“Not at all. It’s there by divine right of creation.” 

“Because it’s in Cape Breton?” 

“Well, that’s no drawback,” he retorted. 

“No, it’s an advantage.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t answer for the whole island, Mr. 
Stewart. My forefathers came from there, too. But of 
course I claim Ottawa, because it is my birthplace.” 

“Poor Ottawa,” he said. “It has a good deal to answer 
for.” 

She flashed around at him. “Aren’t you horrid!” 


1 66 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Hugh laughed immoderately. “You didn’t get down 
this Summer,” he went on, his eyes still dancing. 

“No, I was at home.” The remembrance of that try- 
ing Summer and their altered circumstances made her sigh 
involuntarily. 

“Father has been very ill,” she added, hesitatingly. 

Hugh had evidently heard nothing about it, for he 
expressed genuine concern. “I was teaching at Lake Ains- 
lie most of the time and I didn’t get to hear your folks’ 
news. I hope he’s all right now.” 

“Oh, he’s not strong. He can’t do any work for some 
months.” She was silent a moment, then suddenly she 
said, “I very nearly stayed away from college this year.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t get along without you,” Hugh teased, 
failing to catch the serious note in her voice. 

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m sure I didn’t 
want to stay away myself, but it was a question of being 
able to afford it.” 

“Oh? How was that?” He looked at her in some be- 
wilderment. 

“Why, didn’t you hear about father’s loss?” 

“No, we were never hearing a word down at the Lake, 
whatever.” 

“Why father lost every dollar he had ever saved in 
that Canadian Bank.” 

“Is that so?” Hugh exclaimed in genuine concern. 
“Well, I’m awfully sorry!” 

They walked along in silence. The sunset glow was 
fading from the sky. They had reached the park now 
and turned up Barrie Street. 

“Are you boarding at the same place this year?” he 
asked her. 

“No, I’m staying with my uncle.” 

“That’s fine. You’ll be doing great work there.” 

“I don’t know that I will. It’s almost too comfortable 


MINGLED YARN 167 

for studying.” She slackened her pace as they reached a 
large brick house. Hugh, glancing up, saw the brass 
plate, “Dr. Owen Danvers,” on the door of the wing. “I 
never knew just where Dr. Danvers lived,” he remarked. 
“It’s a splendid house. The Meds. think everything of 
him,” he added. 

“Well, I must go on,” he said a moment later. “I hope 
your father will get along all right.” 

“Oh, yes, thank you. He’s better in the cool weather. 
That heat was too much for him. I used to think of 
Cape Breton sometimes ” 

She stopped short, remembering the long letter written 
to Hugh on one of those stifling days, and which he had 
never answered. 

Hugh interpreted her silence in quite another way, and 
imagining that she felt badly about her father he lifted 
his hat to say good-bye. He had hardly taken three strides 
up the street, however, when he suddenly turned back. 

“Miss Campbell, just a moment!” 

Miriam had run up the verandah steps. It was dusk 
now, and the light streamed out from the drawing-room 
window behind her. She turned at his voice. “Yes, did 
you want me?” she said, hesitating. He was surely going 
to mention the letter now. 

Hugh came up below her as she stood on the steps. 
“Oh, I’m after forgetting that I have a parcel for you,” 
he exclaimed. 

“Oh, have you? From whom?” 

“Whom do you think?” 

“Aunt Hannah?” 

“No, from Christy.” 

“What, Chursty Ian Bhain (Christy, daughter of fair 
John) ?” Hugh had given the English pronunciation out 
of courtesy to Miriam. Miriam glibly used the Gaelic 
phrase. “Whatever did she send me?” 


1 68 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I think puddings, though I didn’t open the parcel.” 

Miriam’s look of horror was a treat to him. 

“You would surely smell them! Maragan (Pud- 
dings) !” 

He choked with laughter. “I’ll bring them round to- 
morrow evening, if you’re free.” 

“All right, thanks. I’d like to see what’s inside, any- 
way. I mean, of the parcel.” 

The door had opened behind Miriam as she spoke, but 
she did not notice it. Cora was in the vestibule, draw- 
ing on her gloves. Her eyes pounced on the pair stand- 
ing by the steps. She noticed Hugh’s fine proportions, 
the poise of his head. And the easy smile with which he 
looked up at Miriam was not lost on her. 

“Ah, ha ! Miriam !” she said suddenly, as Hugh turned 
away for the second time, “I’ve caught you at it now, 
spooning on the steps. Wait till I tell your aunt.” 

“I didn’t see you there !” Miriam said, not finding other 
words at the moment. She was afraid Hugh had over- 
heard the remark. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Cora laughed. “You had eyes 
for no one else. Who is he, anyway? I’ve seen him 
somewhere !” 

“It’s Hugh Stewart from Cape Breton,” Miriam said 
honestly. 

“Oh, and Scotch whateffer,” Cora mimicked. “My 
prither Tonald spokes ta Gaelic as mucht as I and twicet 
as more.” 

“It doesn’t concern any one how my friends speak,” 
said Miriam, sharply. “And I can talk to whom I like, 
here.” 

“Oh, can you? Really! I was under the impression 
that Sedley’s parents were taking you in for the winter — 
most uncalled-for benevolence. But you seem to have an- 


MINGLED YARN 169 

nexed the whole establishment and entertain your country 
bumpkins out here in the dark quite brazenly.” 

Cora swept down the steps as she spoke. Miriam turned 
towards the door. The Highland blood in her veins was 
boiling at Cora’s insinuation that Sedley’s parents were 
giving her board and lodging free. Yet it was foolish, 
she knew, to indulge a moment’s concern over anything 
Cora might say. Those who heard and apparently sub- 
scribed to her tirades were as likely as not to vent their 
spleen on her when she was out of hearing. Miriam’s 
conclusion was supported that very evening. She was 
deep in her books when the little maid knocked at her 
door. “Miss Miriam, there’s a young lady downstairs to 
see you. Your aunt says will I show her up?” 

“Yes, show her up, please.” Miriam tucked some 
papers out of sight and closed her cupboard door. She 
knew her friend’s ferret eyes. 

That young lady appeared a moment later. “Well, you 
look comfortable. I wouldn’t do a thing if I had a room 
like this. Lucky for you your cousins got married. Isn’t 
his wife a gay one? They say he’s home alone half the 
time, when he isn’t at his office.” Her glance travelled 
round the room again. “Sometimes I think I’ll leave my 
boarding-house, only for my brother, and then the board’s 
good. Always go where men are boarding if you want 
a hot supper.” 

“But say, Miss Campbell, what I came about is this: 
You know the Duke of York’s coming?” 

“Yes, I know. The day after to-morrow, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Well, did you notice the Senate’s bulletin-board 
this afternoon ? You didn’t. Why, there’s a notice posted 
up as to how we’re to behave and dress and all that. And 
the dictum is that no student is to take part in the pro- 
cession without academic attire.” 


i ;o MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“And that’s right, too,” Miriam interposed. “But we 
haven’t got mortar-boards.” 

“No. We should have had them long ago. But we 
can’t get them here, and it’s too late to send away. What 
can we do?” 

“Make them,” said Miriam, briefly. 

“You’re not in earnest?” 

“I certainly am. Wait till I get on my things and we’ll 
visit some of the professors’ wives.” 

The upshot of the visit was the daring scheme, which 
provided every one of the hundred and thirty girls, and 
thirty ushers, with a regulation college cap in the short 
space of one day. Elizabeth as an enthusiastic graduate 
and clever needlewoman was pressed into service. She 
went with Miriam and the Minerva president down town 
and helped them order buckram, a bolt of black cloth, and 
a hundred and sixty squares of heavy cardboard. 

At noon Miriam snatched a hasty bite. At supper-time 
she was equally brief, and not until a quarter past eleven 
did her perturbed Aunt Ellen hear her quick footfall on 
the steps outside. 

“My dear child, what has kept you?” 

Miriam took off her hat and pinned on a neat mortar- 
board. “Every girl in college has one,” she exclaimed in 
jubilation, “and thirty men, and one professor. We got 
Davie’s cap for a pattern, and one girl cut cloth and one 
buckram for the bands, and then we set each girl to make 
her own. They’re all finished. Just wait till to-morrow, 
Aunt Ellen. I’m awfully sorry to keep you up so late, but 
this is a very special occasion.” 

“There’s been some one else waiting for you,” her 
aunt chided, “a very nice young man who brought a 
parcel and was most disappointed to find you out.” 

“Hugh Stewart?” 


MINGLED YARN 171 

“You seem in no doubt about the name/’ her aunt 
teased. 

Miriam’s expression was most contrite. 

“Oh, I forgot entirely,” she cried. “Never mind, he’ll 
forgive me when he hears of our great achievement. 
Where’s the parcel, Aunt Ellen? Was it strong?” 

“Strong? What do you mean?” 

Miriam tore off the paper and disclosed a pair of great 
knitted mitts in bright red, blue and yellow. 

“The poor soul! Just look, Aunty! From Chursty.” 

“Well, indeed,” her aunt said, knowingly. “That is 
a labour of love, if she made them herself. You’ll never 
be able to wear them, though. Come now, my dear girl, 
off to bed. Your Uncle went into the hospital to see the) 
Principal to-night.” 

“The dear Principal!” Miriam exclaimed. “How is 
he?” 

“Just lying there, within sight and sound of all the 
preparations for the Duke of York, and worrying his 
soul out.” 

“Well, he need not do that!” the girl exclaimed. “The 
decorations are just perfect. There’s a magnificent arch 
of maple leaves over the main entrance to the campus, 
that is simply gorgeous. The grounds are in the pink of 
condition, every one is working tirelessly. And even our 
mortar-boards will give an added touch. I wish Uncle 
would keep assuring Principal Grant that he mustn’t think 
of worrying.” 

Her aunt was smiling gently. But she shook her head. 
“I’m sure the Principal knows that you won’t leave any- 
thing undone, that you will give him no cause for shame. 
It is not that at all, Miriam. What is worrying the Prin- 
cipal is another kind of decoration — the C.M.G.” 

“Well, that needn’t concern him either. It was an- 


172 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

nounced on the Senate’s bulletin-board that he was to 
receive it.” 

“But, my dear, you do not seem to understand. The 
Principal does not want to receive it. There’s the rub.” 

The young girl stood dumbfounded. 

“You see, Miriam, such honours and titles, the Princi- 
pal contends, should not be accepted by a minister. He is 
the Reverend George Munro Grant, you know.” 

“So, won’t he?” 

“Oh, he cannot refuse. And your Uncle, and other 
friends, are urging him to view this honour in the light 
of a recognition of the work of the University, whose 
Principal he is.” 

“I see.” Miriam spoke slowly, light dawning for her 
on realms undreamed-of. “He would rather be called 
‘Principal’ than ‘Doctor Grant,’ even though it repre- 
sented a dozen degrees, and I do believe he would rather 
be called ‘Geordie’ than anything.” 

It was on a golden October morning, with a fresh 
breath in the air, that a long line of girl students, in 
proper academic garb, moved out from the cloistered 
shades of the old Arts Building and across the campus. 
The trees still held their gold and crimson foliage. 

Hugh Stewart had been chosen as one of the ushers 
on account of his physique. It was not an unmixed joy. 
What better discipline for thirty young disciples of Her- 
cules and Adonis than to be forced to don a girl-made 
mortar-board? Yet as the men filed out on the green 
they made a brave display. 

“There go the girls,” said one. “Don’t they look all 
right, though. Poor Geordie, he would enjoy seeing 
them. Did you hear about the Duke visiting him at the 
hospital? He’s got the C.M.G., all right. ‘I’ve brought 
you this from the King/ the Duke of York said as he 
went into the ward.” 


MINGLED YARN 


173 

“Well, here’s to His Royal Highness ! May he live to 
be King! But Geordie’s a king forever (after the order 
of Melchisedec). 

“ ‘Rule, rule, Geordie ! Geordie rules the boys. 

Oh, what a happy man is Geordie !’ ” 


CHAPTER XVI: WHO SELLS ETERNITY? 


“Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week? 

Or sells eternity to get a toy?” 

— Lucrece, 

Sedley Danvers sat by the grate-fire in his back par- 
lor, pretending to read. Outside, clouds of snow came 
stinging against the window, and the drifts swirled and 
scudded up the streets in a weird, uncanny fashion. 

Contrasted with the wildness of the night, the scene 
within was one of peace. Yet as he gazed from his book 
into the glowing coals, the young lawyer’s face showed 
lines of strain. In the depths of his eyes trouble had 
come to lodge. He closed the book and faced his thoughts. 
No longer could he evade the truth. What was patent to 
those who knew his home life best must be acknowledged 
by himself, the chief actor in the drama. His marriage 
was a hideous blunder. 

A blunder? For most blunders there was a remedy, 
a time of restitution. For this there was none. This was 
a tragedy. 

He had hoped so much and so long. He had tried his 
very best and utmost to redeem the situation, to make 
out of the given elements a union true and helpful. That 
he had failed he knew. But still he must live out his life. 

How to do it? How to make some worthy contribu- 
tion to the world before the candle of his little life should 
have burnt to its socket? How to do this when the one 
to whom he was linked was so utterly unworthy? 

Had he ever really loved her ? How then had he yielded 
i74 


WHO SELLS ETERNITY? 175 

to the infatuation, if it were merely such? He had always 
prided himself on his powers of discernment. He de- 
lighted in uncovering the defects of his fellows in the 
same way that he tenderly laid bare their secret virtues. 
Why had he not discovered, before he sought to win her, 
just how fleeting were her charms, how thin her life- 
blood, how distorted her vision? 

His fault, he knew it well, had lain in a large tolerance, 
an ease purchased dear, at the cost of a lifetime of happi- 
ness. He had not concerned himself deeply enough with 
this important step. In his broad outlook he had classed 
Cora’s faults as foibles, her external attractions as funda- 
mental virtues, and had drifted into her mesh with the 
charming negligence which characterised all his move- 
ments. It was le defaut de son qualite , this tolerance, 
and, though it won him hosts of friends and a pleasant 
time in life, at least until now, he saw at last how it 
had stood in his way at college, yielding a second rank 
to one whose brain powers claimed a first, how it had 
militated against him in his profession, keeping him in 
a small aimless circle, when with effort he might have 
forged ahead into the public life of the day, and now, 
how it had doomed his domestic happiness. Too late he 
had discovered his great mistake. 

Not that he presumed to arrogate to himself all good- 
ness. Far, far from it. He was just as conscious of his 
defects as though Cora had never dwelt on them. But 
this at least he felt. He could admire virtues in others. 
He recognised goodness, he loved gentleness of spirit, 
he worshipped sincerity, in whatsoever life he found these 
qualities enshrined. But Cora was so concerned with her 
particular schemes, her private grudges and gossips, that 
the over-world of goodness made its appeal in vain. 

But if this were all! Sedley’s brow knitted as he re- 
called looks, queries and half-concealed remarks which 


176 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

had floated around him in this long year of married life. 
What had they meant if not that his world, their world, 
scorned her and pitied him? Pitied him! The young 
man’s cheek took on a dull, red glow. How his proud 
spirit rebelled against pity! Yet there it was. The very 
atmosphere in which he moved with Cora was charged 
with it. And well he knew the reason. Cora was his only 
in name. Her restless scrutiny of the crowd, in the hope 
of discovering some new affinity, her extravagant smile 
at some recent annexation, her ill-concealed flirtations 
behind her husband’s back, what man could shield these 
from the vulgar gaze? Sedley had tried by animation, 
kindness and astuteness to do so. Cora had foiled his 
best endeavours. 

So long as her looks went everywhere he could stand 
it. But when whispers reached even his seclusion of the 
coupling of one name with his wife’s, he felt that mat- 
ters must come to an issue. Never could he forget that 
awful evening when he had nerved himself to speak of 
this to his wife. He could not soon forget her laugh, 
high, sharp and strained, nor the way she had feigned 
to treat it all as “the most absurd joke of the season. 
Too good to keep.” 

At that Sedley’ s blood had boiled, sudden and fierce. 
And he had forbidden her to repeat one word of their 
conversation. Cora had pretended to mock at his empha- 
sis, to pooh-pooh the whole episode, but her keen glance 
had read determination in his eye, and she had lapsed into 
sullenness instead. 

He had long since given up remonstrance or appeal. 
He had tried to live his simple, decent life, and to help 
her where he could to do the same. Wedded bliss was 
not for them. Sedley thought grimly of his boyish deter- 
mination to marry his sister Elizabeth, failing her, some 


WHO SELLS ETERNITY? 177 

one just like her, just as radiant, just as good. He had 
not realised just how high were his standards. 

He glanced at the clock uncertainly, then at his watch. 
Cora had been out for tea, was evidently intending to 
spend the evening out as well. For himself he could not 
stand a moment more of this deserted house which the 
storm rendered still drearier. With no definite aim, but 
with determination in every move, he strode into the hall, 
donned his overcoat and went out. 

The snow swirled and cut around him, but he liked 
to breast its worst. He had turned, as though lured, 
through the park, and was making straight for the scene 
of his academic exploits. The far-off twinkling lights of 
the University buildings, like so many fairy fingers, beck- 
oned him through the storm. 

The heavy door of the old Arts building resounding 
behind him, admitted him to a very haven of calm. The 
still air laid a quieting hand on his nerves. The wide halls 
and stairs where the echo of his footfalls penetrated the 
empty lecture-rooms, lifted the strain from his mind. 
High fancies, firm thoughts seemed to move about in 
those spaces as though an unseen company were still 
abroad. He had slipped into the honour Greek room and 
sat alone in its shadows. Could he hear as of old the 
sonorous tones of the lecturer, could he know again the 
pleasures of those gems of classic lore, their flowing lines, 
their chaste and lofty diction, dignified, pure, aloof? 

Another sound crept into his consciousness. Faintly at 
first, arrestingly, yes, unmistakably, from far up above, 
came the muffled roars of applause, the stamping of feet, 
applauding voices, gales of laughter. Something was 
transpiring in Convocation Hall. A couple of belated stu- 
dents springing up the stairs confirmed his suspicion. In 
their company he would be less conspicuous. For the 


1 7 8 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

desire was strong on him to taste again some of the stu- 
dents’ delights. 

A burst of warmth and light and activity rushed out 
to greet him as the door of old Convocation Hall swung 
open. Up and down the platform marched a strange 
figure, crying in weird crescendo, 

“Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez ! 

Was Bessie at the rink to-day ?” 

Not an inch of room available! Obeying an ancient 
impulse, Sedley scaled the gallery steps in a twinkling 
and let himself in at the rear of that densely-packed emi- 
nence. What was this? Lady students, lady students 
only! 

In an instant he saw that happy chance had led him 
into the very middle of a Mock Trial, staged for the 
benefit of the Alma Mater society. They were craning 
their necks to follow the proceedings of the Breach of 
Promise case. The highly-coloured data were further en- 
livened by local hits. 

“My Lord, may I draw your attention to Mr. Hugh 
Stewart? In the next five minutes he is about to laugh!” 
Every one turns to look at Hugh, in the middle of the hall, 
serious as the judge himself. The idea of his laughing 
seems as remote as next Christmas. 

But all of a sudden Hugh does it. He shouts out so 
noisily and suddenly that he startles himself with the 
rest. A roar of laughter runs across the room. 

“Silence in the Court !” thunders the judge. The sabres 
of the twenty special constables crash in corroboration. 

“My Lord, I wish to call your attention to the pres- 
ence of a traitor in the centre of the gallery. As subtly 
as possible he has made his entrance and has ensconced 
himself in the very heart of youth and beauty.” 

A cheer goes up from the audience. Every eye that 


WHO SELLS ETERNITY? 179 

can manage it is focussed on the gallery. Every girl in 
the gallery looks around at Sedley. Nothing but Sedley ’s 
sheer delight in the old flavour of it all could have induced 
any man to keep that place. 

And Miriam in the very front row of the gallery was 
looking around at him in consternation. To her this was 
a contretemps with no visible means of extrication. 

Sedley knew that the only solution was to divert atten- 
tion. He was up in a moment. 

“Your Honour, I am a special detective employed by 
the Court to trace the footprints in the snow at the time 
of the accident. May I direct your Lordship’s attention 
to the remarkably large feet exhibited in the front row 
of the gallery?” 

A burst of amusement from below! Every girl had 
tucked her feet underneath her skirts — every girl but 
Miriam. Was Sedley going to work his jokes on her? 

“My Lord !” he began again in his best counsel’s tones, 
“may I call the attention of the Court to the pair of 
number eights still in evidence?” 

Down shot Miriam’s feet! Ripples of merriment! 

The next moment a piercing shriek brought every girl’s 
heart into her mouth. A woman in the front seat of the 
ground floor had fainted. 

“A doctor! Is there a doctor in the audience?” 

The cry of distress, the agitation of the bench, the ex- 
citement of the Court provided excellent cover under 
which Sedley made his escape. He reached the bottom 
stair just in time to see the dummy “lady,” her wig askew, 
likewise her sofa-cushion padding, carried out by an ex- 
act reproduction of the Dean of the Medical Faculty. 

The “lady” and the “Doctor” were unmasking at the 
foot of the stairs when Sedley slipped past. 

“Was that the guy in the gallery?” 

“Yes, Danvers, the Dean’s son. Smooth, isn’t he?” 


180 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I should say so ! I thought at first it was part of the 
game.” 

“Not a bit of it. He spoke on the spur of the moment. 
He’s clever!” 

The words echoed in Sedley’s ears as he let himself out 
into the storm. It was wilder than ever, but he liked it 
so. Snow and wind and sleet — let them rave! Braving 
them brought a satisfactory feeling of energy and 
strength. 


CHAPTER XVII: CHEERLY SEEK REDRESS 


“Wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss, 

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.” 

— Henry IV, Part II, Act V, Sc. 4. 

Elizabeth, at one end of her mothers polished din- 
ing-table, poured cups of tea with marvellous celerity, 
passing them to the rainbow of pretty girls assisting, ex- 
changing pleasantries the while and kindly greetings with 
the throngs passing through the large rooms. Mrs. Owen 
Danvers was giving a long-owed “Come all ye,” and 
every one in Kingston was bidden. 

Miriam Campbell, the pink tint in the rainbow, flashed 
in and out among the guests. She was tired from her 
long year's hard study, but the comfort and care of her 
aunt's house had brought her through until this, the 
middle of May, with a good record at examinations be- 
hind her. She must stay with them all Summer, her 
aunt said. Her secret hope was that she might earn 
some money in the holidays, if only her mother would 
consent to her teaching in the West. 

A pair of round blue eyes glancing out from beneath 
a gay turban drew the girl’s attention towards the alcove 
in the hall. Behold little Mrs. Dan Rutherford squeezed 
behind a tall dame, but beaming cheerily over a Japanese 
cup, while she picked salted almonds out of her saucer 
with pudgy, white-gloved fingers. She nodded mysteri- 
ously and emphatically to Miriam, who, concluding she 
must want the macaroons, slipped through with infinite 
difficulty and brought up finally beside Mrs. Dan. 

181 


1 82 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“Won’t you have some?” she asked hesitatingly, and 
the entire group indulged. They were in no hurry to go, 
these guests. Mrs. Danvers’ repasts were always sumptu- 
ous, and she had given no reception for a long time. 

“How are the boys, and Vivian?” Miriam asked. 

Mrs. Dan laid a white-gloved hand on the young girl’s 
arm, impressively. “Elmer has sprained his wrist,” she 
announced. “At first we thought it might be merely 

a twist, but ” she shook her head sagely. “It’s an 

out-and-out sprain,” she concluded. “Oh, we fixed up 
splints and put it in a sling. He’ll be all right.” She 
paused a moment, to secure another almond. “Vivian got 
a nasty scratch from the cat, right across the forehead,” 
she remarked, brightening suddenly. 

“Well, how unfortunate they seem to be!” 

Mrs. Rutherford nodded. From one point of view 
her children’s ailments were gratifying, in that they fur- 
nished an exciting topic of conversation. “Oh, well,” she 
continued, philosophically, “Claude is all right again. 
We had his adenoids removed, you know,” nodding back 
towards the surgery. “He keeps his mouth shut, sleep- 
ing, now. I’m watching Vivian very closely. I rather \ 
think that it is adenoids with her, if I’m not very much 
mistaken.” 

She looked so shrewd that Miriam gave her own mouth 
a sudden snap. What a terrible little woman to be pok- 1 
ing over you asleep, trying to prove you ready for an j 
operation ! 

A curious amalgam of social and maternal concern, 
Mrs. Rutherford was ambitious also for her children’s 
education. Having shrewdly observed a certain family 
of repute, whose pale-haired children were daily taken 
walking by their governess, Mrs. D. Webster Rutherford, 
as her calling-cards now described her, had decided that 


CHEERLY SEEK REDRESS 183 

Claude, Elmer and Vivian must have a governess of their 
own. 

It was an inspiration to have thought of Miriam Camp- 
bell. She was a third year student, very well connected, 
but needing funds for college fees. She was the very 
one. They would be generous in their remuneration and 
she might be induced to remain for the winter. Mrs. 
Rutherford grasped the happy chance that had brought 
them together and propounded her scheme to Miriam. 

At first it seemed preposterous. Then amusing, pos- 
sible, advantageous. A feeling of false pride or worthy 
independence no doubt impelled the final view and led 
Miriam to close with the offer. 

“Well, I’ll try it, Mrs. Rutherford,” she said, just as 
suddenly as her mind reached its decision. There was 
I more of a heroic ring in her voice than she realised. 

When Sedley heard of it he was quite put out. He 
i met Miriam, a fortnight later, coming from the post 
office. A stout boy, done into a sailor suit, was walking 
at either side of her. She saw him coming, a block away, 
strolling along the shady street with head half-bent. The 
old city lay a-dreaming in the June afternoon. 

“This is a new role for you,” he said with his quick 
; smile. “What put this notion in your head?” 

“I had to do something,” Miriam answered in the di- 
rect way with which she always met his questions. “I 
couldn’t stay on at Uncle Owen’s indefinitely.” 

“Why not?” 

In his presence she could not hint at charity. “I’m 
enjoying it,” she protested. “I really didn’t think I 
I would, at first. But they’re so very kind, and these are 
two bright boys.” She gave a squeeze to two podgy 
i hands whose owners gazed up at her in round-eyed ad- 
miration. 

Sedley laughed at the pair in his kindly way. He had 


1 84 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

lost the note of jubilation. There was a hint of dis- 
appointment in his tone and expression. And yet she 
felt the kindliness, the warmth of his sympathy, as never 
before. “Pm glad you’re so happy,” he said. “I was 
sceptical, I confess, when I heard of the arrangement. 
Do you make time, with all your new duties, for learn- 
ing poetry?” 

“I keep that for a treat,” she told him. “I’ve been 
learning Browning’s ‘Saul.’ ” 

He listened half-smiling. He hardly seemed to know 
what she said, or else he was watching her say them, 
rather than following her words. “Yes?” he com- 
mented pleasantly, when she stopped. Then, a moment 
later, “I don’t seem to read much poetry myself, these 
days.” 

His own words recalled him. “Well, I must not keep 
you, Miriam. You will want to get your little charges 
home.” He lifted his hat as they moved apart. “Go 
often to see Father and Mother,” he said with sudden 
earnestness. Then, smiling brightly, turned away. 

It had not taken Miriam all these months to learn that 
Sedley had committed an irretrievable mistake. Gossip- 
ing tongues, her own native sense, stray words from 
Tom, all threw light on a subject never openly broached 
in the family connection. Sedley, himself, must know 
it all too well. How could he be so gentle, so serene? 

The little boys’ tongues were loosened by the trip down 
town. Claude was reflecting on their governess’ com- 
plimentary remarks. 

“I’ll bet you Baby won’t be a bright boy when she goes 
to school.” 

“She’ll be a girl,” Elmer retorted. 

“She’ll be a dunce fool,” said Claude. Then, “What’s 
your name ?” he propounded. 

“Billy MacLean,” Elmer promptly responded. 


i«S 


CHEERLY SEEK REDRESS 

“Where do you live?” “Down the lane.” 

“What’s your number?” “Cu-cumber!” 

“What do you do?” “Chase the school!” 

“What do you sit on?” “Two little stools.” 

“What do they look like?” “Two little fools.” 

“All into plum-pudding and pie!” 

They brought on the final course with such gusto that 
Miriam jumped and squealed exactly as though she her- 
self were about to be chopped to mincemeat, to help out 
the supply. This greatly delighted the boys, and they 
came to their house in such evident good spirits that their 
mother, fussing with Vivian’s carriage on the side ver- 
andah, exulted over her governess. 

“Up to the bathroom, boys, and wash your hands be- 
fore nursery tea ” a new institution. “There’s a let- 

ter for you, Miss Campbell. Didn’t I see ‘Regina’ on 
the post-mark? My old music-teacher is married out 
there — Mrs. Judge Stewart. But of course you wouldn’t 
know any one of that name.” Oh, how round and 
“poppy” were the eyes fixed on her! It was just as 
though she had read through the envelope. 

What was the use of dissembling? Miriam opened the 
envelope and glanced casually at the signature. Then she 
raised her calm, pleasant gaze to the little “Poll Pry.” 
“This is from Hugh Stewart, all right. Your ‘Mrs. 
Judge’ must be his aunt. I know his uncle. He is a 
Judge.” 

“I thought so,” very wisely. “There’s a family re- 
semblance. Something about the forehead. She was 
always very tony. Her rates were the highest in town.” 
She glanced corroboratively down at her own stubby fin- 
gers, as though one might expect to see music exuding 
from the tips. “I want Vivian to ‘take.’ Poor Vivian, 
it’s quite a time ahead just yet. So your letter is from 
the young man, himself, is it? Well, I won’t disturb 


1 86 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

you then. Perhaps you can move Vivian back and forth 
while you read. She’s fussy with her teeth.” 

Mrs. Rutherford, who was fussy even apart from her 
teeth, and who would be at a loss the day that Vivian’s 
set of these convenient scapegoats was complete, trotted 
indoors with a secret glance of interest over her shoulder 
at the young governess who was tearing open the envelope 
in evident excitement. 

It was like a cool Western breeze to read that long 
letter from Hugh Stewart away out in Regina. 

‘‘Dear Miss Campbell: 

“Many thanks for your most interesting letter which 
came to me this morning. The fact that it was written 
one year ago gives it an historic value which it could 
not possibly have had if its course had not been inter- 
cepted. Now I can understand how my last letter to you 
remained so long unanswered. I analysed every word 
and sentence in that letter many times since, wondering 
what I had said that offended you. I finally came to the 
conclusion that you had suddenly and definitely decided 
to discontinue the correspondence without any word of 
explanation. Needless to say I was grieved and disap- 
pointed, and in the circumstances did not feel like forcing 
my correspondence on any one. But in the light of this 
morning’s revelation my wonder is that you could have 
been civil to me all last Winter after my apparent dis- 
courtesy. Your goodness of heart alone was security 
against that, and I write to ask your forgiveness for what 
Hugh Stewart the cooper is partly responsible for. The 
cooper, you may remember, lives on the rear of our farm 
where we picked the blackberries. My letter from you 
was handed to him. Failing to make out an order for 
tubs or barrels in your reference to the ‘woods,’ he placed 
it under the old clock, and there it remained until it 


CHEERLY SEEK REDRESS 187 

dawned upon some friend of theirs recently, who was 
given the task of interpreting it, in the light of the 
cooper’s trade, that it might have been meant for me. 
That it has been a circular letter adds to its interest to- 
day and I hope that this explanation will find you enjoy- 
ing the Summer in the old Limestone city. 

“We would give a great deal for the old Ontario strand 
out here. We miss the trees and the water. But there 
is something exhilarating about the atmosphere of this 
country. It is a shade lonely in contrast with the jolly 
days of college and an annual letter tends to make it 
more so. But there is an air of hopefulness and progress 
that makes it fascinating for a young man. The people 
are from Ontario and the East and some from the Old 
Country. They are friendly and sociable and I should be 
glad to think of living here always. 

“Congratulations on your work of last Winter. I saw 
by the Whig of your high standing. I am enjoying the 
work here very much. There is no other man of my 
name in town, unless you address me as ‘Judge.’ I shall 
look forward to seeing you in the Fall. 

“Yours very sincerely, 

“Hugh Stewart.” 

A slow smile drew around the corners of Miriam’s 
mouth as she read. She pushed the carriage back and 
forth automatically, but her thoughts were with a young 
law student in far-off Regina. Yes, she would answer his 
letter. It gave her a certain pleasure to plan what she 
would say. Only she must wait for a time. Why ? Oh, 
well, it would not do to seem too glad to hear from him. 
It was a good thing to keep a man in suspense as to 
whether or not you wanted to be good friends. Not too 
long, of course, but long enough to make him anxious and 
very much relieved when the strain was at an end. 


1 88 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

All the same it was pleasant to hear from him, pleas- 
ant, too, to think that there was still a year of college 
life with all its opportunities for friendship. 

The Summer passed in a golden dream. She had not 
expected such happiness as those drowsy days in the Uni- 
versity city brought her. Her duties were light, her 
temporary home very pleasant and she spent long hours 
with the children in country walks, in Macdonald park, 
out on the lake, or walking right into the heart of the 
sunset, repeating sometimes to herself, sometimes to the 
boys, bits of poetry and sentences that had caught her 
fancy in her college work or private reading during those 
strenuous days of study, when she could not afford time 
to give rein to her erring fancy. Now she steeped her 
soul in their beauty, now she lived them in the glories of 
sky, and lake, in waving branch, in exquisite flower. The 
sensuous passion of Shelley, the haunting music of Keats, 
the pure vision of Tennyson, the intimate note of Words- 
worth, she dwelt on them one by one. So she grew in 
sun and shower like a veritable child of nature, until into 
her eyes there came the silence and the calm which mute, 
insensate things lend to those who watch and receive. 
Physically, as well as mentally, she was developing, and 
little Mrs. Dan, whose round eyes missed no detail near 
them, beheld with mingled feelings her unfolding grace 
and dignity. She was proud of the girl’s growing loveli- 
ness, but she was afraid that she would lose her govern- 
ess. 


CHAPTER XVIII: VIRTUE IS BEAUTY 


“In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; 

None can be called deformed but the unkind: 

Virtue is beauty.” 

— Twelfth Night, Act III, Sc. 4. 

Cora tossed the letter into her husband’s lap. “It’s 
from your precious cousin, Pauline ! She thinks October 
a charming month for a visit to Kingston. She’ll expect 
all manner of fuss to be made over her. Where am I 
going to get the coin for an afternoon tea? We owe 
the butcher three or four months back and the milkman’s 
boy tried to get saucy this morning, because I couldn’t 
pay for the tickets again !” 

Sedley’s face took on that look of quiet which it al- 
ways assumed on these frequent family scenes. It was 
useless to ask Cora about the money which was meant 
to meet these bills. It would be the invariable response. 
She never saw it. She had hardly seen the colour of 
money since she was married. 

“When is Pauline coming?” he asked, quietly. 

“This week — Friday noon, unless I telegraph her to 
the contrary, which I have every notion of doing. Mean 
little cat to come spying around here to see just how hard 
up we are! And Miss Pauline will not appear in the 
garb of poor relation, mind you. Who asked her any- 
way? It must have been in one of your fits of cousinly 
affection that you grew so generous with your invita- 
tions.” 

Sedley crossed his feet, uncrossed them and folded 
the paper carefully. It was hard to answer her civilly. 

189 


190 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

‘‘For mercy’s sake stop rustling that paper, Sedley. 
It sets my nerves jumping. Well, can’t you speak? What 
are we to do?” 

He rose slowly and as if wearied. “You can have some 
money, Cora, if you’re so hard pressed. Of course Paul- 
ine must come. You’ll make it go as far as you can, 
won’t you? Things have been rather dull this Summer.” 
He paused a moment, then — “How much do you owe 
the milkman?” 

She told him, defiantly, and he counted out the amount 
from his pocket-book. “I’ll send the butcher a cheque,” 
he said slowly. “We must not let things get so far in 
arrears.” 

Cora, slightly mollified at the sight of the bills, which 
she did not intend the milkman to have, began to talk 
volubly of an elaborate “At Home” for Pauline to be 
given the day after her arrival. “I owe every one any- 
way,” Cora said, “and I might as well pay back when 
she’s here. Every one will ask her afterwards. It’s 
just the season and it will keep her going, and give her 
a chance to show off her clothes.” 

“Of course if you really feel you need to return invita- 
tions,” Sedley put in, “it’s all right. But I’m afraid 
you’ll come short before you’re through. I really cannot 
draw any more just now.” 

“Oh, well, we’ll make a dash to begin with,” Cora de- 
creed. “Nothing like first impressions, you know, es- 
pecially with people like the Campbells.” 

And Cora was the very one to gratify these weaknesses. 
Pauline was met at the junction on Friday noon by a cab 
with two prancing steeds and a driver in livery. 

“I wouldn’t be bothered with that abominable little 
side line,” she declared, as she ushered Pauline into the 
cab in full sight of the other passengers. “Drive right 
up to the house, Coachman !” 


VIRTUE IS BEAUTY 191 

Pauline's shrewd eyes, which had noted every detail of 
the other girl’s attire, scrutinised the driver in sudden 
consternation lest he should prove to be a veritable fam- 
ily retainer. She scanned the sidewalks on either side, 
on the lookout as always for any familiar face of mas- 
culine persuasion. But those Kingston streets at noon 
hour furnished very few faces of any description. 

“I haven’t been in Kingston since Elizabeth was mar- 
ried,” Pauline announced. “Is this where you live, Cora ? 
What a cute house !” 

“Yes, pretty fair.” Cora gathered up her skirts to 
alight. “At least it will do till we build.” 

“Are you going to?” sharply. 

“Oh, eventually,” Cora answered, safely enough. 
“That will do, Coachman. I may want you to drive us 
out this afternoon. I’ll let you know, later, however.” 

“Very good, Mrs. Danvers.” He touched his whip to 
his hat with respect born of the knowledge that Dr. 
Owen Danvers was behind the long bill at the livery 
stable. 

“Well, Pauline,” Sedley began, as soon as they were 
seated at the dainty luncheon which the grocer and 
butcher had obligingly furnished, “I suppose you’re all 
eagerness to see that young sister of yours.” 

“Who? Miriam? I should say so! I’ve got several 
messages for that young lady from mother.” 

“I suppose you have — not having seen her for so long.’’ 

“Oh, not the kind you mean, Sedley. I can tell you 
mother is hopping mad at the way Miriam has acted.”' 

Sedley turned in pretended amazement. “What has 
she done?” 

“Why, gone to take care of a brood of youngsters, 
at that impudent little woman’s, Mrs. Dan Rutherford’s. 
She forced her way into our house one Sunday night, 


192 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

and stayed so late that mother had to literally push her 
out.” 

“Actually!” Sedley exclaimed. Cora laughed shrilly 
at the description. She and Pauline were on common 
ground now. 

“Tell me, Sedley,” Pauline continued, her mouth full 
of lettuce, “is Miriam still with that litter?” 

“Litter!” Cora shrilled. “Of course she is. But, my 
dear, don’t forget our relationship to the Rutherfords.” 
She threw a sharp glance towards her husband. 

“Oh, I’m not forgetting that,” Pauline nodded, attack- 
ing her bread and butter, “but I always said Elizabeth was 
too good for that Tom Rutherford, English master and 
all the rest of it.” 

“Professor of English,” Sedley corrected, a gleam of 
amusement in his eyes. “Didn’t you hear he had been 
appointed assistant lecturer at the college?” 

No, this was news to Pauline. “Sedley talks as though 
he were raised to the peerage,” Cora interjected. “There’s 
a certain class of people in Kingston, you know,” she ex- 
plained tolerantly to Pauline, “who speak of professors 
with bated breath. Fame can rise no higher. ‘He’s a 
professor at the college,’ they whisper, and you see 
aureoles floating in the air. Have some olives?” She 
stretched her long neck in exaggerated unconcern, and 
extended the silver dish at the end of her taper fingers. 
Pauline helped herself generously. 

“Does Miriam mean to keep on with that work all 
.Winter?” she persisted, still turning to Sedley. 

“I haven’t really seen her lately, but I imagine she 
does.” 

“Well, I’ll make it my business to get her out of that 
place before I leave Kingston.” Pauline fell to on her 
luncheon again, with vehemence. 


VIRTUE IS BEAUTY 193 

“Where will you put her, when you do get her out?” 
Cora asked coolly. 

Pauline would have liked to answer “None of your 
business,” but unfortunately Cora was her hostess. 

“She would not want to go back to Dr. Danvers after 
that scene last year,” Cora continued deliberately. 

Pauline was agog for information. They had heard 
nothing of it. Cora must explain. 

“Oh, I don’t know just the ins and outs of it. There 
was something about a student who used to follow her 
home. I caught them in the porch one evening at dusk.” 

Sedley was watching his wife closely. He detected 
signs of malicious intent. 

“Did he /come from the East?” Pauline leaned for- 
ward eagerly, her fork suspended. 

“Yes, so I believe.” Nothing could have sounded so 
remote from personal bias as Cora’s tone. 

“Did you hear his name, Cora?” 

“What was his name, Cora?” asked her husband, just 
as suddenly. ‘T never heard it.” 

His quick challenge sent tell-tale colour into her cheeks. 

“Really I wasn’t told,” she answered to Pauline. “Oh, 
of course your aunt made little of it. Just as well for her 
own sake, don’t you know. It was after that that Miriam 
took this position.” 

Sedley was still watching his wife, so closely, indeed, 
that she began to feel uncomfortable, and turned the con- 
versation into channels beyond his depth. From a re- 
cital of misfits and misshapes in polite society as Cora 
knew it, her husband was fain to escape downtown. 

“Don’t make any engagement for to-night, Sedley,” 
his wife called out. “There are two or three people com- 
ing in.” 

“All right!” Sedley answered cheerfully enough. But 


i 9 4 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

a moment later he caught himself quoting beneath his 

breath, 

“Say not the struggle naught availeth 
The labour and the wounds are vain.” 

Resorting to poetry? This would never do! Suddenly 
his face brightened. Elizabeth was walking on the other 
side just in front of him. 

“Why, Sedley, you look fagged out,” she told him 
after he had joined her. “You had better come in and 
see father. He’ll give you a tonic.” 

Sedley made light of her concern. He was thinking of' 
dropping in at home, he told her, sometime that after- 
noon, and he would go with her now. “And whom do 
you think we have up at the house?” 

Elizabeth could never guess. When she heard, “Why 
that’s quite a tax, for Cora, isn’t it?” she said hesitat- 
ingly. Had she uttered her thoughts she would have 
added, “when you are so hard pressed.” 

“She’s a case, Pauline,” Sedley said whimsically. “I 
never saw a greater contrast than between her and 
Miriam. They have positively nothing in common.” 

“Miriam is Uncle Roderick personified. Have you 
seen her lately, Sedley? She is unfolding like a flower, 
new petals every day and a further glimpse of her golden 
heart.” 

Her brother smiled at the description. “You have a 
good deal of the poet about you, Elizabeth,” he said. 
“But I like that picture of Miriam.” 

Dr. Danvers was stepping into his buggy as they came 
up to the house. He hailed them cheerily. “What? 
Leaving husband and wife to pay a visit to the old home? 
How are Tom and Cora?” 

Quite well, they told him. “But I think Sedley looks 


VIRTUE IS BEAUTY 195 

sick, Father/’ Elizabeth interposed. “Couldn’t you give 
him a tonic?” 

“Oh, he’s all right,” their father pooh-poohed. “Stays 
up too late reading, I suppose. His old tricks.” Sed- 
ley laughed and passed into the house to find his mother.. 
Mrs. Danvers had just risen from the routine nap and 
her cheeks were like roses. She never failed to take 
this little rest after luncheon. “If I lose myself for 
even fifteen minutes,” she would say, “I waken refreshed.” 
She greeted her son with enthusiasm. “Sit down, dear, 
and tell mother how you are getting on.” 

“Just in the same old way,” he told her, “Cora is 
having some friends in to-night, just one or two, for 
Pauline, and there’s the reception to-morrow. I’m pok- 
ing along at the office.” 

She watched him closely as he spoke. “I’ve wanted 
to say it for a long time, Sedley,” she said finally. “And 
this may be as good a time as any. My boy, you are very 
unhappy in your home life. It is a heartbreak to your 
father and me.” 

The young man was silenced, but the dull flush on his 
cheeks bore witness to his agitation. 

“I thought at first, I hoped, time might mend mat- 
ters,” his mother continued, after a moment’s painful 
pause. “But the months are passing, it will soon be your 
second anniversary, and I fail to see any improvement 
in her. It is growing harder for us to be even civil to 
her. And as for you, her husband, I fear it will never 
be anything but a heavy cross to you. You cannot, you 
never will, have anything in common. I see nothing but 
shipwreck ahead.” 

Sedley drew himself up. “I don’t think it should come 
to that,” he said. 

“How can it be helped ?” his mother cried. “What will 
prevent it? If she had any saving virtues, any latent 


196 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

powers that might be developed, I should not despair, 
but try as I may, and I have tried, I can find none. Oh, 
Sedley, how did you ever come to make such a choice?” 

Sedley bit his lip. “This is rather a strange time to 
put that question, isn’t it, Mother?” 

“Perhaps it is. You never gave us a chance to put 
the question before. Perhaps it is. But it was wrung 
from me. If I could see the promise of nobility in her 
it would give me hope of better things. But she is utterly 
lacking.” 

Sedley’s voice was firm and quiet. “No,” he said, “you 
must not say that. Cora is not utterly lacking. She has 
powers of discernment that a good many of us might 
envy, and a strong will, which, if guided right, would 
accomplish wonders. And she is quick with her fingers, 
wonderfully clever.” 

“Oh, my poor boy,” his mother wailed. “You have 
so pitifully little to defend her with.” 

“I don’t think so,” he said stoutly. “If I put beauty 
and youth on her side, too, it would weigh quite heavy, 
Mother.” 

It would fly into the air, were your virtues put in the 
other scale, his mother said to herself. Privately she 
would never allow Cora’s beauty. She looked at him 
yearningly. Then, with quick maternal instinct, she saw 
how her words were hurting him. 

“You said Pauline was here,” she said, changing the 
subject quickly. “What a girl she is ! Her tongue runs 
away with her. You must all come over for Sunday, 
Sedley. That will save Cora some preparation. I’ll ask 
Miriam, too. Plucky little Miriam to make her own 
way this Summer. I admire her very much for it, and 
so does your father, although he pretends to be annoyed.” 

“She got along nicely here last Winter?” Sedley said 


VIRTUE IS BEAUTY 197 

tentatively, having in mind Cora’s fantastic scandal, the 
baseless fabric of which he had strongly suspected. 

“Miriam? Certainly. No one could have been more 
pleasant in the home. What are you meaning, Sedley?” 

Nothing at all, he assured her. And a moment later, 
smiling his old affectionate adieu, he was striding up the 
street. The beauty and freshness of the outside world 
was alluring. But — to his office he must go and peg 
away, if he were to make the most of the powers and 
opportunities given him. There were only a few years, 
at the most, for a man to work. It behooves him to get 
busy, 


CHAPTER XIX : THRICE ARMED 


“Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just.” 

—King Henry VI , Part II, Act III, Sc. 2. 


Junior English was just out. The students thronging 
the halls were talking, listening, tussling, skirmishing. 
The lull which the exit of the Professor of English oc- 
casioned was but momentary. A few casual glances at 
the hurrying figure, head bent, two tiny books under 
arm, and then the hailstorm of voices recommenced. 

“The Concursus is to sit to-night !” — “Who cares if 
he is ‘Science’ ?” — “General Cheek”— “Well, it’s full 
time” — “Boulding’s not the only one” — “Why, I tell you 
he was wearing the ‘Q’ at the parade” — ‘I hope they’ll 
make the sentence heavy!” 

Some few cries only were distinguishable from the gen- 
eral hubbub. The tones and gestures of the men showed 
how high feeling ran. Boulding of Science Hall was 
summoned to appear that night before the Concursus In - 
iquitatis et Virtutis. 

This august body was a court of discipline conducted 
by the students with the approval of the Senate as a 
means of preserving order and decorum. Should any 
Freshman unduly ape his Seniors, should any Sophomore 
seem over attentive to the lady students, should any man 
use rough language on the campus, or prove insolent 
and generally fresh, lo! a summons to appear before the 
Concursus! Woe befall him who failed to comply! 
Varied were the charges preferred against the prisoners, 
but the most common was that which covered a multitude 
198 


THRICE ARMED 


199 

of minor misdemeanors and was known as “General 
Cheek.” 

This charge was laid against Fyfe Boulding of Science 
Hall. Many were the instances and illustrations. He 
had escorted three girls to college. He had carried a 
cane to church. He had presented his private card as 
introduction to the Professor of Chemistry. He had 
paraded the college halls in a fashion offensively free. In 
the University parade he had carried a banner, “Science, 
Champions in Football.” Lastly, he had worn, unwon, 
the famous College “Q.” This was an honour permitted 
only to the great victors of the campus. That golden “Q” 
emblazoned on the sweaters of the students of Queen’s 
was the hall-mark of athletic attainment. In prestige it 
scarcely ranked second to class medals. To presume to 
arrogate to oneself the dignity of this decoration, with- 
out having duly qualified, was an unpardonable offence 
among the whole student body. It was more than enough 
to warrant action. Proceedings were immediately in- 
stigated and Boulding was summoned forthwith. 

“Hugh Stewart, there’s a bundle of letters for you at 
the Office. The P.M. wishes you’d appear and claim 
your own. The 'S’ box is crowded.” 

Hugh was hanging his college gown in the locker. 
The corridor was jammed. “Thanks, I’ll go for them.” 
He turned again to put his note-book on the shelf above 
his gown. “Hello! What’s up at the bulletin board?” 
He joined the crowd that was standing three deep in the 
hall, pushing and craning their necks to see. “What’s the 
news?” cried Hugh, slapping the nearest man. 

“That you, Stewart? You should be interested. The 
Football Union has supported the protest against us, and 
it’s up to us to beat them on Saturday and land the 
trophy.” 

“Poof! That’s easy. We’d do that anyway,” was 


200 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

the confident response. “But that’s mean of the Union 
all the same. We won’t stand one-sided treatment. We’ll 
get out.” 

“Yes, that’s what I say,” cried a little man, on the 
side. “Land the trophy and then clear out!” His big 
voice carried across the tumult. Though small of stature 
he was possessed of tremendous lung power. “Land the 
trophy and then clear out,” he repeated, and a cheer went 
up from the crowd, as he was hoisted aloft and borne 
down the hall singing lustily, 

“Beat our team you never, never will. 

For you know you haven’t got the skill. 

We’ve been champions, we are champions still, 

And will be till we die.” 

Two or three of the Senior students, coming out of the 
library, moved back until the populace surged past, 
whistling at the elevated position of the soloist. “What 
has Captain Goliath been doing?” asked one, staring up at 
the little man. 

“They’re getting excited about Saturday. Are you 
going to the match ?” 

“Well, rather! Do you think I’d sit quietly at home 
while our college put it all over them ?” 

“Did you hear what’s on at the Concursus to-night?” 

“I did. And it’s high time. I saw him get his sum- 
mons this morning. Boulding, yes. And when he had 
read it he smiled the most insolent smile, and strolled off 
through the halls, with his hat on the back of his head.” 

“He didn’t get far with that!” another cried out. “It 
was knocked clear off across the halls over the bannister 
and down the stairway. The History lecture was just 
over and before they all got up the stairs, there wasn’t 
much hat left.” 

A quick laugh ran around the circle. “Hush! That’s 
his cousin,” some one cried. 


THRICE ARMED 201 

Keen glances scanned Miriam Campbell, passing down 
the hall. 

“Who cares?” said one, recovering quickly as Miriam 
disappeared within the consulting library. “He’s a duffer. 
Serves him right! There’s something more on, though. 
Science men are going to make a rush on the Concursus 
and rescue their men. I had that straight from one of 
the Science Seniors. He says there’ll be a big scrap.” 

“Tell your friend they’ll be sorry they came, then,” 
was the retort. “Arts men are twice as heavy. Remem- 
ber the ‘rush’ last year on the campus? And our Fresh- 
men are two to one against theirs in weight. There’ll 
be a sorry-looking lot of Scientists tonight. By the way, 
there’s the Registrar. Say we bombard his office and ask 
if there’s any truth in the rumour that the fees are to be 
cut in half?” 

The Concursus Iniquitatis et Virtutis sat at seven- 
thirty in the Mathematics room. The Arts men were 
gathered in large numbers. The judge sat in solemn state, 
with the jury ranged on his left. The prosecuting attor- 
ney, the lawyer for the defence, the witnesses all were 
there. 

Enter the sheriff with the prisoner, Fyfe Boulding! 
Boulding was crimson with rage and his violent struggles 
were a source of great entertainment to the assembled 
court. At first he had thought it a joke, and a mark of 
distinction to be so summoned. That was how he had 
treated it with the Freshmen at his boarding-house. But 
his feelings changed when he actually came to the Col- 
lege and saw the students massed about the door. It 
was the first Court of the season and was of great in- 
terest, especially to the Freshies who had heard of its 
renown but had never witnessed its proceedings. 

It was this vision of all his fellow-students, massed 
to see him tried, which completely unnerved Fyfe. His 


202 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

coolness changed to a glow of indignation, and he tried 
to knock off the hands that held him. The scuffle de- 
lighted the onlookers, and there was a roar of laughter, 
mingled with shouts of “Constable!” “Constable!” But 
the valiant sheriff held him firm and dragged him into 
the dock. 

The charge was laid — “General Cheek” — substantiated, 
as was necessary, by the citing of one particular instance, 
the wearing of the “Q,” an honour unwon, and witnesses 
were produced on both sides. After eloquent speeches by 
the two lawyers, the judge’s weighty charge to the jury 
(cheered to the echo by his fellow Seniors) the jury re- 
turned the verdict — “Guilty.” 

The judge arose. In passing sentence he wished to 
give some words in explanation. A roar of disapproval 
swept the court. 

“This charge of ‘General Cheek,’ preferred against the 
prisoner, is becoming all too common !” 

“Hear! Hear!” “That’s right, your Honour.” “There 
are others!” 

“Stringent measures must be taken to prevent its re- 
currence !” 

Tremendous pedal and vocal applause greeted this 
weighty ruling. 

“The punishment best befitting a crime of that order 
is one which tends to lower the self-esteem of the de- 
linquent, and hold him up to public shame !” 

Deafening shouts! Cries of “Good stuff!” Cat calls! 
“Order in the Court !” 

“I proceed to pass sentence on the prisoner.” In a big 
voice and amid an awful silence, he uttered these words — 
“I sentence you, Fyfe Boulding, undergraduate, and 
student in Science Hall, to be publicly spanked, by means 
of a shingle, on ” 

But the sentence was arrested by a mighty shout, and 


THRICE ARMED 203 

in crashed the door of the court room! Then the Sci- 
ence slogan rent the air : 

“Hail! Hail! the gang's all here! 

Steam drills and concentrators, 

Gold and iron ore, 

Science Hall forever! Queen’s forever more!” 

It was the call to arms. Arts vs. Science had long 
been a war-cry and it needed but an occasion such as this 
to provoke a deadly warfare. In an instant the Arts men 
had closed about their prisoner, fighting off the attempts 
at rescue. 

“Arts huzza! Arts huzza! 

Floreat Academia, Arts ! Arts ! Arts !” 

They were almost equal in numbers, but the Arts had 
the advantage in weight. Back and forth the contest 
waged, the Science men struggling towards the platform 
where Boulding was guarded, the Arts men pushing them 
towards the door. Although the “scrim’ ’ was general, 
there were many private skirmishes between Science and 
Arts men who embraced this opportunity of paying off 
old scores in this satisfactory manner. 

But — Science was losing ground. The Arts men were 
bringing their heavy weights to the fore. Two huge 
Highlanders from Lanark acted as battering-rams. Be- 
hind these the Arts men worked. 

The Scientists were not to be dislodged without an 
heroic struggle. Realising that their plan to rescue 
Boulding had fallen through, and spying the judge in 
front of the fighting line, they made a set for him. The 
Arts men closing in, warding off, elbowing, buffeting 
and pushing. The judge was adamant. He stood his 
ground, rolling out orders and sounding the college yell 
as from cavernous depths of chest. 

Hugh Stewart, in the thick of the fight, had edged 


204 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

up nearer to the judge. His muscular powers made him 
a doughty foeman. “Come on!” “Come on!” he was 
yelling, completely carried away by this titanic engage- 
ment. He saw a man on the other side of the judge fight- 
ing furiously against an avalanche of the invaders. Then, 
in some miraculous manner, one of the invaders had 
slipped into his place and was tussling with the judge at 
close range. Hugh saw the move and knew that at any 
moment they would be surrounded. He threw back his 
head. “Once more unto the breach, ye Arts men, yet 
once more!” he shouted, in his stentorian voice. The 
cry rallied the forces. Efforts were redoubled. Side by 
side with the Lanark stalwarts Hugh fought, pushing, 
pummelling, pounding. Arts men followed up, Science 
gave way. They were pushed through the door down the 
hall, and out to the campus, where the whole student 
body went tumbling across the green. 

Hugh walked home with a crowd of his year men. 
Their hearts were light over the victory and particularly 
over some little thrashings administered on the side. In 
amiable chorus they warbled, 

“The Campus is the place to kick 
The football and to shout; 

The Campus is the place to turn 
Umbrellas inside out. 

The Campus is a lovely spot 
To ambulate about.” 

“Well, Judge, they nearly carried you captive to Sci- 
ence Hall.” 

“Not so easy as you think.” 

“Why you were completely cornered. It was just be- 
fore Stewart, here, broke through with that yell.” 

“Our football Goliath was beside me till he got knocked 
away by a bunch of Christian Scientists.” 

“Knocked away!” Disgust was in Hugh’s voice. 


THRICE ARMED 


205 

“Why, he let the man slip into his place. He almost lost 
our Faculty to Science — I say, I pretty nearly forgot all 
about it !” 

“What’s up?” 

“Oh, I have an invitation that I’d like to skip. But — 
I can’t. I’ll say good night, fellows.” 

“Good night, Stewart! Good night, Hugh! Hope 
your bones won’t ache too badly.” 

Hugh cut a caper to prove himself fit, and strode off 
through the park. A shout from behind recalled his at- 
tention — “You’re going the wrong way!” 

He laughed and waved his hand, still striding on. It 
was Sedley Danvers’ house he was making for, what- 
ever the boys thought was his right destination. “Just 
an informal evening,” Mrs. Sedley had assured him. 
“My husband’s cousin from Ottawa, Miss Pauline Camp- 
bell, is visiting me.” 

It is doubtful whether Hugh would have accepted 
without the bait held out in the name Campbell. Cora’s 
invitation was tossed so lightly in his direction that he 
felt every inclination to ignore it. Had he heard all the 
altercation anent that visit he would have been prejudiced 
against the functions in its honour. 

Cora’s welcome, however, had all of effusion and 
nothing of reproach for tardiness, when at length he ar- 
rived at her home. She, herself, admitted him, and 
gaily swept her six-foot Highlander into the minute re- 
ception-room. 

“Of course you know we’re cousins,” Sedley exclaimed, 
shaking hands heartily. “We found that out on a mid- 
night ramble. Every one in Cape Breton is, if you go 
far enough back. If you don’t watch you will find your- 
self related to Miriam.” 

“I’ll take good care!” Hugh retorted, so unexpectedly 
that the other man laughed out. 


206 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

So Miriam was the connecting link, Pauline deduced. 
She forthwith set herself to annex Hugh’s interest. 
Rather more difficult it was than she had thought. Hugh 
answered her leading questions literally. No tantalising 
admissions or coy rejoinders could trap him into compli- 
ments. He looked straight at the girl with the downright 
sincerity characteristic of his clan, and never dropped into 
her personal undertone. And all the time his quick 
glances towards any movement near the door suggested 
that he was missing some one else. Pauline was 
thoroughly disgusted and mentally turned him over to 
Miriam, obtuseness and all. 

Not so Cora. She had her own schemes laid, which 
Hugh must further. Her plan of attack was subtler than 
Pauline’s. She had been playing from some of the latest 
operas before his appearance. Now her taper fingers 
glided into the sweet, inviting notes of “Annie Laurie.” 
Hugh turned towards her. She changed the air again. 
“Ye Banks and Braes,” the piano wailed out. Hugh 
walked towards the instrument. From that she passed 
to “Over the Sea to Skye,” and when the tones of “Wi’ 
a Hundred Pipers an’ a’ an’ a’ ” went marching merrily 
out of those keys, Hugh had thrown back his head and 
was shouting, with the best of them, 

“We’ll up and gie them a blaw, a blaw.” 

After that it was easy to fall into conversation, and 
while her fingers picked out softly the tender Scottish 
strains, Cora succeeded in getting in her most spiteful 
thrusts at Miriam Campbell. Hugh was a friend of hers? 
Yes ? Well, they all wanted to be, too. But really Miriam 
was making it hard for them these days to be even polite 
to her. Why? Cora showed a painful hesitation and 
she struck some minor chords as though her heart cried 
out against anything unkind or unlovely in the world. 


THRICE ARMED 207 

Then, facing Hugh’s steady eyes with her own hawk- 
like gaze, Cora reluctantly referred to some unfortunate 
references to Miriam that had been made that very day,, 
in regard to, well, to be candid, in regard to her rather 
free ways with men, meeting them out in the evenings 
unknown to her aunt and uncle who were so very good 
to her, taking her in as one of their own, in fact. 

Her injured concern for Dr. and Mrs. Danvers 
had its effect on Hugh’s high sensitiveness, and when 
Cora, seeing her shafts had lodged, struck out into the 
full-voiced harmony of the ‘‘Bonnie Banks of Loch 
Lomond,” Hugh’s heart swelled with righteous indigna- 
tion against anything clandestine or unworthy, especially 
when practised by so respectfully-connected a girl as 
Miriam Campbell. 

“Well, Stewart, how is college work going?” It was 
Sedley’s chance now, for Cora was looking after supper. 

“Oh, we’re getting into the swing of it again. It’s dull 
around the halls till the Divinities get back. They keep 
the songs and yells going. It’s great weather for field 
sports, though. I’m out at football every afternoon. My 
course is pretty heavy this year; I’m taking honour work 
in Polecon and I need a good send-off.” 

“You haven’t been down East lately, to Nova Scotia.” 

“Well, no, I’ve been West mostly,” Hugh returned. 
“I like the stir and the freshness of the people out 
there.” 

“Do you? They wouldn’t have much time for study- 
ing or reading, would they?” 

“Well, I don’t know. They seem well-read, however 
it happens. They must have got through with it young. 
I don’t seem to get to read much, myself. I never did. 
I wish I had had books when I was a boy. We were just 
hungry for books.” 


2o8 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

‘‘What a pity! What kind of books do you like best? 
Fiction ?” 

“No, I’m not very much for stories. Once in a while 
a good detective story or adventure — no, I like biography. 
It’s a good mixture of everything, don’t you think? Fic- 
tion and history and geography and philosophy — in short, 
it’s life.” 

“Oh, it’s life!” Sedley agreed. 

“What is ‘the life’ ?” Pauline picked up the last words 
as she stepped nearer the charmed circle. 

Sedley laughed out. The next he rose smiling. Who 
in the doorway framed but Miriam ! On seeing the others 
she stepped back, but Sedley drew her in. “Come to see 
sister?” he asked. “Here she is!” 

Hugh, who had risen, was a witness to the careless 
greeting between the girls. And then his turn came. 

“Thank you for your good little letter,” he said, hold- 
ing out his hand. 

“Did the cooper enjoy it?” Miriam was smiling up 
at him. 

“Immensely. Especially your reference to ‘barrels of 
fun.’ ” 

“Did he put this letter under his clock, do you know ?” 

“No, he’s after putting this one under his watch.” 

Sedley whistled softly, looking from one to the other. 

“Oh, I heard about the awful fight you had to-night,” 
Miriam hurried on to say. “They said Hugh Stewart 
fought like a wild Indian.” 

“A wild Highlander,” Sedley suggested. “Just a re- 
versal to type.” 

“Oh, a little tussle with Science. We hustled them out 
for some fresh air. They were interrupting the Con- 
cursus.” 

“Interrupting! Yes, I should say so! Breaking in 
doors and making things generally uproarious. You 


THRICE ARMED 


209 

men will have to put your hands in your pockets for all 
that damage. What was it all about, the Concursus, I 
mean ?” 

“Oh, a fellow who got too everlastingly fresh and 
would have been spanked, only for the interruption — 
Boulding. Oh, by the way, I forgot” He stopped, look- 
ing at Miriam. 

Her face was a picture of conflicting sentiments. Sed- 
ley watched her, amusement in his eyes. “Is — that — 
who it was?” She looked up, smiling swiftly at the 
two men and flushing thereafter. “I wish those Science 
students would keep to their own halls,” she said, “and 
let justice take its course. They’re always spoiling 
things.” 

Hugh’s laugh held something of triumph as well as 
pleasure. “Don’t you worry. He’ll get what’s coming 
to him, sooner or later.” 


CHAPTER XX: MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 


“Nature, crescent, does not grow alone 
In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes, 

The inward service of the mind and soul 
Grows wide withal.” 

— Hamlet, Act I, Sc. 3. 

The station was jammed with students. They packed 
the little waiting-room, the sidewalk, the platform. They 
overflowed among the freight sheds, across the rails, and 
on to the empty trucks stalled along the tracks. The 
staircase leading from the waiting-room was a solid 
mass of girls, who lent gay colour to the scene. And 
colour a-plenty floated in the Autumn air from the vivid 
college pennants, ribbon bands, and streamers of the old 
scholastic tricolour, blue, red and yellow. 

They were waiting for Geordie. His train was on 
schedule time. No plaint forthcoming there. And if 
they had been packed here in seething, swaying crowds 
for half an hour or more, whose fault but their own? 
But they wanted to get Geordie. They must see if that 
ocean voyage had brought the needed glow of health. 
They must take him on the last lap of his journey. They 
must show him that Queen’s was still on the old Ontario 
strand. 

A warning shriek and whistle ! A long-drawn, answer- 
ing, ear-splitting duplicate from the assembled hordes! 
In from the little junction came trundling, sooty and im- 
portant, the train that bore its precious passenger to the 
waiting crowds. 

Train officials, city dignitaries, members of the Sen- 
ate, professors, tutors — Geordie! A yell rent the air. 


210 


21 1 


MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 

And to their Principal’s answering wave and smile and 
bow a thundering chorus of cheers re-echoed. Then they 
chanted out their College yell, staccato. Pennants and 
ribbons waved, shouts of welcome were redoubled and 
the long metre doxology thundered the tidings, 

“Queen’s College is our jolly home; 

We love it still where’er we roam. 

The very songs we used to sing 

In memory’s echoes long shall ring.” 

“To the University! To the University!” The cry 
ran from group to group. Away with the horses ! Are 
there not willing steeds enough to draw Geordie to his 
home? Cheering and singing, the crowds surged up the 
little hill. The city was taken by storm. It was, in- 
deed, a willing captive. Queen’s was Principal Grant’s 
College. Kingston was Principal Grant’s city. All Can- 
ada knew that. And all Kingston knew that the Principal 
was coming home that day. There was not an idler on 
the street corner, a housewife along the festive route, an 
envious, derisive school-boy, running on the outskirts of 
the crowd, a nurse with a group of little children, who did 
not understand the significance of that swaying, hilarious 
mass of young men, charging along the sunlit streets, 
westward, ever westward! 

“To the University!” The girls have branched off 
through the park. “Beat the men ! Beat the men !” they 
call, running and laughing and panting. Are these the. 
staid college girls, their decorum changed to recklessness, 
themselves a part of the general melee? Up Deacon 
Street and through the campus. A roar from far down 
the slopes ! The men are at the lower campus gate. In 
the door! Up, up, up the stairs! To the gallery! To 
the gallery ! 

Miriam Campbell in the forefront of the pushing, 
laughing, jaded jam of girls, makes a superhuman effort 


212 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

to scale those last few steps. A mighty shout from be- 
low ! The men come charging up the stairs behind them. 
The gallery, man’s ancient stronghold, is endangered ! 

In at the gallery door burst the girls, the men at their 
very heels. “To the front seats !” — There are no aisles. 
Gathering her last bit of strength, Miriam pressed by 
the throngs behind, tumbled and scrambled in, over and 
down, over and down, over and — a shriek. She was over 
the edge, over that sheer drop of — No, she was caught! 
On the very brink. A hand shot out and caught her, 
caught and held her firm, and drew her, shaking and terri- 
fied and spent, down to the seat beside him. 

“Oh, Hugh!” she said, in sobbing whisper, shrinking 
against him in her terror, “I was nearly killed!” 

Hugh’s arms ached, not with drawing the cab, but with 
longing to clasp her tight — tight ! 

“A-hem !” came a voice from the rear. “I say, Stewart, 
are you going to apply for the Humane Society medal?” 
And then in louder tones, from a farther corner, “Oh, 
Hugh, you’ll have to marry her. You can’t get out of 
it now! — Wow!” 

Miriam’s cheeks held two glowing centres. If by any 
means possible she could have crawled out of that miser- 
ably public place! But she was wedged in by the whole 
mass of men and girls she had out-run. Someway she 
must live through it. The next moment she forgot her- 
self in the burst of sound which deafened her ears — 

“Oil thigh na Bannrighinn gu bragh. 

Cha gheill! Cha gheill! Cha gheill l” 

(“Queen’s forever! Never yield! Never yield! Never yield!”) 

The sunlight was fading in the western sky as Miriam 
trailed her homeward way down the winding paths. She 
was spending the Winter at Elizabeth’s new home in town 
— a wandering Jew indeed. She walked to the edge of 


MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 213 

the park. Suddenly she remembered her note-books, left 
behind in the excitement of the afternoon in her locker. 
Hurriedly she retraced her steps through the park and 
on into the campus. It was dark in the old Arts build- 
ing, but she could have walked blindfold through it. She 
found her locker. Yes, there they were, piled up on the 
shelf. The janitor coming down the hall, jingling his 
bunch of keys, stopped to enquire in his kindly way 
if she were going to spend the night there. “Such late 
meetings as these students have,” he murmured, shaking 
his grey head seriously. “There’s the glee club just 
gone.” 

“I suppose the girls are the worst,” Miriam said, to 
draw him out. 

No, indeed, the girls were the best of them, the old 
janitor affirmed. He decidedly favoured co-education. He 
had watched and noted how these same young men would 
be cutting up capers when all of a sudden a sweet young 
maiden would glide along the halls and by her very pres- 
ence check the hilarity of those youths. And, being con- 
vinced of the benefit to the University of the lady students, 
he did his best to make their lot a happy one. The 
very way in which he said “Yes it’s a fearful day,” 
seemed to clear things up a little when the prospects were 
so doleful some dark Winter morning. 

“Well, I must hurry home,” she told him, “or you’ll be 
locking me in.” Running down the dim, wide staircase 
she saw below in the hall, a student, making his way out 
in front of her. Miriam strained her eyes to look. Yes, 
it certainly was Hugh Stewart, Hugh, who had saved 
her! He loomed so large in the shadows, larger than 
she had even thought him. Why, he was a man now, 
nothing of the youth left. Those six months in the West 
had worked a wonderful change. 

She hurried just a little. It would be too bad if 


214 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

he got out first and made away with those long strides 
of his before he knew she was behind. But Miriam was 
just too late. She let the door bang after her, hoping 
that the noise might attract his attention. Hugh turned 
at the sound, recognised her, hesitated for a moment, 
lifted his hat and then plunged ahead down the steep little 
path through the campus. 

She was thoroughly disappointed. More than that — 
hurt. He had done it deliberately. Not to wait a mo- 
ment to walk along with her! It was not gallant of him, 
even if they had not been good friends. But coming 
after that agitating episode of the afternoon, it was 
heartless ! 

She walked along steadily, at a good safe distance be- 
hind him, her heart surcharged with a hot wave of in- 
dignation. And when he turned up Barrie Street, she 
kept right on through the park, looking neither to the 
right nor to the left. Had she known Hugh’s thoughts 
her indignation would have heightened. 

What was Miss Campbell doing in the college at that 
late hour ? Hugh was wondering. She had been talking 
to some man, he knew, for he had heard their voices from 
the upper story. He had not seen the grey-haired janitor 
with his bunch of keys, standing erect by the head of 
the staircase, chatting away in his communicative fashion, 
and keeping Miriam longer than she cared to stay. 

In any case Hugh thought it might be just as well, in 
view of the circumstances, not to advance on his intimacy 
with the girl. The gibes of the students were not forgot- 
ten. The Scotch reserve was uppermost now. So he 
kept on his circumspect way until he reached his board- 
ing-house. A group of the fellows were lined up on the 
stairs, waiting until the tea-bell rang, and giving an 
impromptu concert meantime. They had all sorts of 
musical instruments, from a mandolin to a Jew’s harp, 


MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 215 

and one of them, standing at the bottom with a toothpick 
for a baton, was delivering this impromptu ballad with a 
thundering accompaniment by the band. 

Oh, I hope there’s something hot for tea, 

Something piping, steaming h-o-t! 

Stewed-up prunes or rice won’t do. 

We prefer an oyster stew, 

If there’s none we’ll all skidoo, 

O-U-T ! 

We are tired, so tired, of mush and hash, 

We’ll be doing something wild and rash. 

If those things again are seen. 

There’ll be wigs upon the green. 

We can’t study and between 
Eat trash ! 

Hugh tried to scale the stairs by means of the ban- 
nisters. But the concert broke up suddenly and he was 
seized and carried bodily to his room by five or six men, 
who, despite the struggles of this, the athletic champion! 
of the year, proceeded to tie him to his own bedpost. 

Hugh swung round his big arm and sent one man 
sprawling. Then he seized his ink-bottle and holding it 
up, threateningly, vowed to spoil the collar of the first 
one who approached. The clang of the tea-bell persuaded 
them that discretion was the better part of valour and 
they all decamped in a body, each grabbing some article 
as a memento of the visit, a slipper, a hairbrush, a neck- 
tie and a medal, all of which booty they laid at the feet of 
their long-suffering landlady, begging her to deduct an 
eighth of a week’s board and accept payment in kind. 

This united attack on Hugh for which very purpose 
they had been lined up on the stairs, was intended to 
act as an offset to his recent triumph in the debating con- 
test, his prospects for the “Polecon” medal, and to pre- 
vent his double victory on campus and platform from 


21 6 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

completely turning his brain. The frenzy of the afternoon 
was slow in subsiding. 

Hugh did not feel very comfortable that evening. He 
had told himself that it was the part of wisdom to 
forego the companionship of a girl who could act as 
Miriam had evidently done, although there lingered a trace 
of reluctance to cut off a friend so suddenly, especially 
one whom he had saved that very afternoon. Anyway it 
would not have stained his reputation to have walked a 
few blocks with her. Cora had got in better work than 
she knew. Poor, unquestioning Hugh, unaccustomed to 
the wiles of venomous women, had accepted too readily 
those concoctions of hers regarding Miriam’s laxity, and 
his righteous judgment had been directed against the 
wrong person. 

The Winter passed with the usual round of lectures and 
study, with the rink claiming a good share of the leisure 
hours and the hockey matches drawing their crowds of 
admiring spectators. Glee club concerts, dramatic per- 
formances, the University sermons, the German play, 
the Minerva society of which Miriam had been elected 
president, the year “At Homes,” the Conversazione, the 
missionary societies, threatre night, Alma Mater society, 
Mock Trial, Alumni Association, each claimed the inter- 
est for a brief period and passed out of sight for the 
year, while the steady march of lectures went relent- 
lessly on. 

Miriam and Hugh saw very little of each other, apart 
from an occasional encounter in the halls. Hugh’s re- 
serve was wearing away with the passing of the months 
and he showed a desire to renew their old comradeship, 
finding nothing in Miriam’s deportment to substantiate 
Cora’s charges, and feeling privately ashamed of his 
hasty judgment. But he found it more difficult than he 
had thought to repair a broken friendship. Miriam was 


MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 217 

keeping her own sweet distance, and quietly ignored his 
overtures. 

This of course made him all the more determined. 
Chances of meeting socially were becoming rarer as the 
term advanced, but — there was the Senior “At Home.” 
Certainly she would be there ! So away with “Bosanquet” 
and off for Miriam! Hugh, in evening attire, was no 
unworthy object of a girl’s regard, and he had taken 
very special care to make himself presentable. With the 
whitest of shirts and the blackest of suits, with shining 
shoes and a curly head much trimmer than it had been 
three years previous, he made quite a figure in the halls 
as he was hailed by one and another. 

“Hullo, Hugh ! Thought you’d be digging in to-night. 
Couldn’t resist, eh? That’s right.” 

“There’s Stewart! You’re not a Senior, Stewart. 
You are? Well, I knew you had some interest in the 
graduating class !” 

“Say, Mr. Stewart, come over and be introduced to 
this bunch of girls. I’m on the reception committee, and 
by all the powers, I’ll not be on it again. I can’t get 
them to budge from that corner. I told them I’d bring 
a real lion — the champion athlete — oh, I say ” 

For Hugh, having suddenly seen his duty in another 
direction, was off to do it. He remembered on an in- 
stant, that he had not been properly “received” — remem- 
bered it just as he saw that “she herself” was in the wait- 
ing line, to have her hand shaken, as punishment for 
being the Vice-President of her year. 

Hugh gave a squeeze that sent her ring into the next 
finger. “I didn’t know you would be here,” he said, im- 
pulsively. Really, these warm, brightly-lighted halls, with 
the voice of music and the perfume of flowers and 
fragrant whiffs of coffee, had the boarding-house all 
beaten, actually they had. He had thought last night that 


218 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

there was nothing finer than settling down at a table full 
of books in front of a shaded lamp, with his feet on 
the register. But now with Miriam, a vision of pink 
loveliness, before him, and the feeling of her slim, cool 
fingers inside his big hand, his opinions took a somer- 
sault. 

As for Miriam, she remembered her grievances. 
Hugh Stewart could not play with her, being nice or 
nasty as he chose. 

“Will you keep the last number for me?” he was 
actually asking. 

“I have it filled, Mr. Stewart. ,, The mischief she had ! 

“Which ones can you give me, then ?” How audacious 
he was, and how handsome ! 

“I can’t give you any. No, I mean I actually can’t. 
Well, they’re all taken. All right then, you may see for 
yourself. Why, you don’t need to spell out every name. 
Oh, of course I’m awfully sorry, but some were promised 
before and ” 

Miriam! Miriam! How Pauline would stare, how 
Sedley would shout to hear you ! 

Hugh could not laugh. He was vexed. He did not 
believe the names were genuine. But he gathered up the 
scattered pieces of his pride for one more try. 

“I should like to walk home with you at the close 
of the evening.” He said it with all the gravity and de- 
corum of a Professor of Rhetoric. So afraid was he 
of a refusal that he had lapsed into his old diffidence. 

“I have promised already, Mr. Stewart.” She was 
as glad to tell it as he was annoyed to hear it. Yet he 
had known. Her eyes had told it before her words. 

“Well then, good-evening,” he said, and to Miriam’s 
amazement had turned and gone, not into Convocation 
Hall, but down to the dressing-room again. Going home 
because he was cross! Not spunky enough to go ahead 


MIND’S INWARD SERVICE 219 

and have a good time anyway! And she laughed with 
glee even while she said to herself, “Poor, dear Hugh !” 

Now, if he could have heard that! 

And yet, so contrary is man, that the next day being 
Saturday and “band at the rink,” he dropped his work 
again and set off. What a glorious afternoon it was — 
not many more this Winter. Every one was skating. 
Ilka lassie had her laddie, and the band was playing 
“Comm’ thro’ the rye.” Yet try as he might he couldn’t 
get Miriam. She was either skating or going into the 
dressing-room, every single time. And the first thing 
he knew the band was playing them off — early, too, be- 
cause of the big hockey match at night. And, “May I 
walk home with you, Miss Campbell?” He was quite 
prepared to say it, when she actually walked past him 
with Fyfe Boulding. A pest on these cousins! And 
hardly looked in his direction! 

Well, what was the use of bothering about girls, un- 
certain creatures that they were! Why should he try 
to meet her ? Hugh gave up the attempt at last, with secret 
chagrin at the turn affairs had taken, and plunged into 
his studies. The Winter’s work was in full swing now. 
The halls hummed with the voices of gowned figures go- 
ing their several ways to class-rooms, and the full- 
throated tones of the professors expounding, explaining, 
examining, while the click of the typewriters in the reg- 
istrar’s office, an occasional explosion from the physics 
classroom or the far-off tinkle of the piano in the girls’ 
Minerva room relieved the oppression of the atmosphere. 
There were hours in the still library among those rows 
of silent books, crammed full of knowledge. Think of 
the brains of the men who had written, now dust and 
silence! No, not silence. They had left their word of 
life fairly set down in black and white, a wonderful 
achievement. 


220 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

There were hours, in the musty air of the old museum, 
where, amid the stillness of extinct species, the oppressive 
companionship of skeletons and fossils, one struggled to 
see and to see over some abstruse doctrine of Immanuel 
Kant or John Stuart Mill. An intellectual struggle this, 
which gripped the very nerve of you, and wrenched the 
fibres of your brain in that wild clutch after the in- 
tangible. Hours when the sunshine outside seemed sickly 
and unreal, when the very chair on which you sat dis- 
appeared from beneath you and left you faced with but 
the reality of the invisible, and your whole being one 
throbbing desire to comprehend. 

There were hours in the lecture-room when, pen in 
hand, and note-book open, head bent and mind alive, 
one wrote as though his very fate depended on it. And 
so it did to some extent. For those wakening thoughts, 
those illuminating explanations, which came in flowing 
periods from the professor’s lips contained the very ele- 
ments of salvation for a certain day in April. 

So the Winter passed, Spring drew on warm and luring, 
and when the buds began to swell on the maple-trees in 
the campus, and the lake, blue and white flecked, danced 
in the sunshine, there came one day the call — Step out 
into the world of men. The splendid years of your col- 
lege course are over. 

In the little group on which the gates of University life 
closed that Spring day and before which opened the doors 
of the great world, Miriam Campbell passed out to take 
her place in the ranks of the world’s workers. 


CHAPTER XXI : FULL OF BRIARS 

““O, how full of briars is this working-day world!” 

— As You Like It, Act I, Sc. 3. 

A spotless April afternoon, just on the verge of May ; 
sweet bird-notes, throbbing with lovesick, Springtime 
madness; fresh breeze hot with sun; the streets of the 
old Limestone City alive with a gay throng making their 
way to the Convocation exercises of Queen’s University. 

The hall is filling rapidly. Here are the representa- 
tives of Kingston’s best families arrayed in festive at- 
tire, for this is the social event of the Spring and Kings- 
ton is proud of her University. Here, too, are visitors 
from sister cities, from rural neighbourhoods, from grow- 
ing towns. They have come from far, to witness the 
laureation of those in whom they take a special interest, 
for whose sake, probably, they have made untold sacri- 
fices, sacrifices already forgotten in the joy of success. 
The gallery is filled with a crowd of undergraduates, 
stored up with wit and wisdom to shower on the heads 
of their brothers in the limelight. The blue, red and 
yellow streamers float over the railing, and a huge placard 
portraying a man with a bulged-out head and attenuated 
body, bears the inscription, ‘Til have a sheepskin too.’* 

Songs are in order now. Out swells the familiar 
strain, 

“We wear the yellow flower 
That marks the earnest life, 

Enriched with learning’s dower, 

Trained in athletic strife. 

In fact, we fairly make things hum, 

We boys of the Chrysanthemum.” 

221 


222 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Then the college yell rends the air. 

Suddenly there was spied the advance guard of the 
professorial procession. The white-haired Chancellor, 
walking side by side with the chaplain of the day, moved 
slowly up the middle aisle towards the platform. A 
simultaneous burst of applause broke from the gods, for 
not a student there but knew and revered that stately 
personage. But the next moment this was drowned in 
a mighty cheer which shook the rafters and echoed far 
out across the city, for a tall figure was walking alone 
behind them, pale from his long illness, worn with the 
strain of his onerous duties, but with the same calm, 
cheerful dignity that won allegiance, love and loyalty from 
every student heart. Then they sang his song, sang it 
as though they loved to sing it, every word, 

“Rule, rule, Geordie, 

Geordie rules the boys. 

Oh, what a happy man is Geordie !” 

A quick smile broke over his face. The Principal 
loved that tribute. 

Then the students turned to lesser matters. They 
greeted the professor of Old Testament Literature with 
the cheering assertion that there was just “one more 
river to cross.” They sang a plaintive wail in behalf of 
another who had “no hair on the top of his head.” They 
chanted the dirge of the man who demanded drastic 
amputation — “Saw my leg off, Short” They cheered 
“Pheesics” and insisted on reminding the Registrar of 
his academic degree, and many were the personal refer- 
ences which only the initiated could appreciate. A hand- 
ful of rice was sprinkled on the heads of a freshly-en- 
gaged couple just below the gallery, and when the aged! 
gentleman next to them resented a grain or so on his 
own bald pate and put up his umbrella, there ensued a 
regular fusillade. An elderly spinster, who had loosened 


FULL OF BRIARS 223 

her bonnet strings, found a sudden coolness above and 
beheld her cherished headgear drawn up and up, gallery- 
ward on the end of a fish-hook. In response to her hor- 
rified stare it was carefully lowered to its landing-place, 
a trifle askew, but with the added ornament of line and 
fish-hook. 

Finally, the students calm themselves for the opening 
ceremonies, and Convocation proceeds in its formal, 
scholastic manner. When the laureating ceremonial is 
reached there is a stir among the rows of students seated 
near the front. The medallists come first, and Hugh 
Stewart is favoured with a regular ovation as he strides 
to the front to receive the medal in Political Economy. 
Hugh has no fond relatives in the audience. His people 
at home are puzzled to know what this strange “Polecon” 
means — is it some bird of the wilderness, or does it deal 
with the subject of marriage? Polecon, pelican, po- 
lygamy. Besides, the trip is too long and costly. But 
one girl in gown and mortar-board, seated among the stu- 
dents, watches him with an interest born of acquaintance 
with Trout Brook and his home among the mountains of 
Cape Breton, where the little stream with willows bend- 
ing over flows below his barn, and the miniature wind- 
mill is at work churning butter. 

But when the name of Isabel Margaret Miriam Camp- 
bell is called and Miriam finds herself, as in a dream, 
mounting the platform steps and kneeling while the Chan- 
cellor, holding a college cap above her head, pronounces 
those ominous words, which invoke undying allegiance 
to this Alma Mater, and the Dean of the Faculty of Arts 
slips on her B.A. hood, many eyes are strained to see, 
and a quick burst of applause greets the young girl as 
she descends. Her uncle and aunt are well to the front, 
Professor Tom is on the platform, Sedley and Cora 
are just across from her, Mr. and Mrs. Dan Ruther- 


224 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

ford are beaming from the side and friends of her friends 
are all interested in her laureation. But as she sinks 
back, hooded and triumphant in her seat, Miriam’s eyes 
seek out from among the crowd one dear face and she 
feasts upon that look of gratified happiness imprinted 
upon it. Pale, older it is, but still the same kind father’s 
face and she knows what this hour, the culmination of 
long years of expectation and concern, means to him. 

And presently it is all over. As a dream, when one 
awakens, all the pomp and glory of the Convocation 
day have passed, and the students are dispersing to their 
various destinations and old Kingston again sinks into 
her enchanted sleep. 

The first morning that Miriam wakened in her own 
home she tried to recall what awful calamity had hap- 
pened. A sense of depression and loss brooded over her. 
What could it mean? Then she remembered. There 
was no more college. The realisation came like a dull 
blow. For a moment life seemed an utter blank. 

Her misery was heightened by the sound of Pauline’s 
voice at the door. “Hurry and get up, Miriam. We’ve 
got to get the fire started.” Her sister’s voice sounded 
so hopelessly unsympathetic, that Miriam’s heart failed 
her completely. How infinitely happier the girl who has 
never tasted the joys of college life! 

“This is the working-day world I used to speak of 
so easily,” she whispered to herself, dressing swiftly. 
“Now it’s here. And all my talk about working ideals is 
in order, I suppose. But how am I ever going to endure 
it, if Pauline keeps on making hits at my studies!” 

But her sister was more merciful than she expected. 
Perhaps Miriam’s reticence disarmed her, perhaps she 
proposed giving the girl time to recover. For even the 
uninitiated see how great is the change from the high 
realms of thought, visions and ideals, to the everyday 


FULL OF BRIARS 225 

home life among those who have not shared the experi- 
ence. Miriam felt lost without college. She moved about 
the house the first few days in bewilderment. As yet 
she could not realise that these were not holidays, but 
that the months would stretch into years and she must 
find her interests outside the University walls. 

What made it harder, too, was the fact of their limited 
means. When she began college she had left a home of 
comfort and ease. Now she found things pinched and 
scarce. She had to take a good share of actual hard 
work, for the Campbells had very little to go on, and 
could not afford extra help. 

“You act as though you were in a dream all the time, 
Miriam/’ Pauline told her one evening, when they were 
sitting out on the little front step. “You ought to get rid 
of all that excited, gaunt look and take some interest 
in the family’s concerns.” 

“Don’t I do my share?” Miriam asked bluntly. She 
was thoroughly tired with a long day’s routine and in 
no mood to be attacked. 

“Oh, yes, you work all right. Mother and I are quite 
surprised at the amount you can do when you set your 
hand to it, and don’t pose as the student. But for pity’s 
sake, Miriam, look as though you took some interest in 
things ! You go around the house as grumpy as though 
you had lost your best friend. I believe you’d rather 
be with those college girls than with your own sister.” 

Miriam said nothing in rebuttal. Just at the present 
moment Pauline might have truth on her side. The girl 
was miserably lonely for some of her old associates. 

“Besides, Miriam,” the older girl continued, in what 
she meant to be a tender tone, “you don’t show the spirit 
of a Christian. After all father and mother have done 
for you to give you these free years in Kingston, and 
then when they want you home to do some little work, 


226 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

you sulk.” She paused a moment to fix her quotation 
and then delivered it, virtuously. “Not slothful in busi- 
ness, fervent in spirit , serving the Lord !” 

If Miriam had not been so tired she would have 
laughed at Pauline’s unction. But she really felt too 
tragic to look for humour. Her sister talked as though 
keeping house were work, and those months of stiff 
study “free years.” Miriam could not stand that. 

“You seem to think studying wasn’t work at all,” she 
said, wrathfully, and ignoring the quotation. “If you 
had been there yourself you would know better.” 

“So I was,” her sister said, complacently. “I visited 
Elizabeth when she was going to college. Possibly you 
would not remember. You were only a skinny school- 
girl with your hair in a pig-tail. Anyway I went to 
several lectures, and they did not strike me as so won- 
derfully ‘stiff’ as you call it. Uncle Owen wanted me to 
stay on and take the course. And so I might have, only 
that my eyes gave out.” She blinked corroboratively. 

Miriam was thoroughly exasperated. She was 
privately persuaded that even with two pairs of eyes 
Pauline could never have “taken the course” as easily as 
she referred to it. And it was certainly trying to rank 
one’s achievement in graduation with something any one 
might accomplish. She was spared replying by the ap- 
proach of two girls, one a neighbour, and the other a 
’Varsity graduate who was visiting her. They slipped 
down on the lower steps, refusing Pauline’s offer of 
cushions. 

“We came over to call on your college sister,” was 
the smiling explanation. “Just to get a whiff of Univer- 
sity air.” 

“Yes, I’m stifled,” the other girl continued. “You get 
so tired of this ordinary life on the plains, you need an 
occasional breath from the heights.” 


FULL OF BRIARS 227 

“ You’ll get more than a breath here,” Pauline 
laughed. 'There’s a breeze all the time. What Miriam 
would call a 'stiff’ breeze, I suppose.” She wiggled fur- 
ther into her corner after that retort. But she was in 
no mind to have the evening pass with Miriam’s achieve- 
ments in the fore. 

"Say, girls,” she launched out, spreading her skirts 
and exhibiting one patent toe, "who’s the new teller over 
there in the bank, with a little black moustache? He’s 
awfully cute!” 

The neighbour girl knew and fell into the conversation 
readily. The other turned to Miriam. "Aren’t you sorry 
it’s all over?” she said. "I think the first few months 
out of college are dreadful. What are you going to do?” 

Miriam shook her head. If she had any plans she 
could not divulge them here with Pauline’s ears open to 
catch what she said. 

"Come on for a turn up the street. We won’t go far,” 
she assured the others, lest they should decide to come too. 

"You can’t settle down without some regular work, 
I’ll tell you that, Miriam,” she began as soon as they were 
out of earshot. "Unless you’re actually needed to help 
in the house, I’d branch out into something. Put your 
University course into use. You’ll wither on the stalk 
if you don’t. It’s all nonsense to talk about college girls 
being no good at home, afterwards, or perhaps it’s all 
sense. They aren’t any good for some of the trivialities. 
They are quite disqualified. You’ll find you can’t slip 
into your old niche at home. It would be a wasted four 
years if you could. Remember I don’t say you can’t find 
a place at home. But you can’t find your old place. 
There must be readjustments. And to spend your spare 
time as Pauline does in fixing up her clothes for parties 
and going to them seems to me the emptiest sort of ex- 
istence.” 


228 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Miriam heaved a deep sigh. This sort of talk might 
be revolutionary but it was soothing. “I wonder what 
I could do/’ she began. “ You’ re in the civil service. I 
don’t know whether I’d have a chance.” 

“Yes, but that might not suit you.” The other girl 
spoke doubtfully. Then, “Why don’t you take a year 
at the Normal and teach?” she suggested. 

“I thought of that but I can’t bear to ask father for 
another year’s study.” 

“But if it were to make you practically independent 
he would not mind.” 

They strolled back and forth talking in an intimate way 
which those of common experience can enjoy. Miriam 
went to sleep that night with further vistas of achieve- 
ment opening out before her. 

What plans and prospects faced those hundreds of stu- 
dents, whom the closing of the term or the conclusion of 
their course sent out from the old Limestone City ! Over 
the length and breadth of the Dominion they scattered. 
The long snake-like C. P. R. that went thundering along 
the wild north shore of Lake Superior carried a score 
or more students bound for the great Northwest Hugh 
Stewart pillowing his head on satchel and overcoat, was 
wakened from an uncomfortable doze by a sudden jolt of 
the train, and the voices of two students opposite, talk- 
ing of their destination. 

“I’ve got a school in Saskatchewan,” a young Arts 
graduate was saying. “It’s just east of Yorkton. They 
pay sixty a month.” 

“Subtract your board from that,” the other man re- 
turned. 

“No, I’m going to bach. There’s a shack that will 
hold me, I imagine.” 

“Can you cook?” 

“Sure thing. The three ‘p’s’ will put me through— 


FULL OF BRIARS 229 

porridge and potatoes and pancakes. You come along 
and call some day when you’re doing parochial visiting, 
and I’ll cook supper. It will be something uncommon.” 

“I believe you,” his friend answered. “About that vis- 
iting you speak of, I’ll have to invest in a pony, I sup- 
pose. But I’m not going to Saskatchewan, you know. I 
have a mission field in Alberta, near Mundare.” 

“What is Stewart bringing his Economics medal out 
here for?” the other man asked, looking over to where 
Hugh lay cramped in a futile attempt at rest. “He didn’t 
graduate, did he ? What’s he up to ?” 

“I don’t know just where he’s bound for. Come on 
over and have a chat. He’s not asleep.” 

Hugh turned over lazily, as they poked him, and set- 
tled his big shoulders against the cushions of the seat. 
“Aren’t you fellows going to have a snooze?” he asked 
drowsily. 

“It’s too rough,” one man answered. “Those jolts 
would spoil my best dreams. I’ll be glad when we strike 
the prairie. Another tunnel! Well, what smoke! This 
is the worst of the trip, I think.” 

“Where are you going, Stewart?” 

“Out to Regina. I’m in a law office there. It used to 
be my uncle’s before he was elevated to the Bench. I’ll 
finish my second six months.” 

“Aren’t you going to Osgoode?” 

Hugh shook his head. “Osgoode’s all right for On- 
tario, but it’s better for the West if you get into a good 
law office and learn the practical workings.” 

“Lucky man you are. I suppose you’ll settle West.” 

“I rather think I will,” said Hugh. “What about 
yourself?” 

They told him their plans and talked away about 
things past and future until fatigue overcame them and 
they dropped into the most comfortable postures they 


230 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

could, and managed to get intermittent jerks of sleep 
until morning. 

‘‘Fifteen minutes’ stop here,” said Hugh, waking up. 
“Let’s get out for a breath. Well, isn’t that air great!” 
They stretched their limbs, threw back their heads, and 
sniffed the scented gale. 

“There’s something in this Western air that makes a 
man feel good,” Hugh said. “You square your shoul- 
ders and look things in the face. When do we get 
to Winnipeg?” 

“That’s where I drop off,” said another man, joining 
the group. “If any of you men want corner lots on 
Portage Avenue or Broadway, just call at my office.” 

“Going in for real estate?” 

“Certainly. That will be the most important busi- 
ness out here for the next century or so.” 

“I question if it will,” said the theologue, looking 
towards the colonist car with its swarthy occupants. 
“There’s the business of the next century — making de- 
cent citizens out of a crew like that.” 

They all agreed. “It looks a hopeless undertaking 
to make Canadians out of those sheepskin coats,” said 
one student. 

“Not more so than with our own forebears,” Hugh 
contended. “My grandfather landed in the kilts and I 
suppose he looked hopeless to the French.” 

“There’s one thing,” said his friend, “the country that 
gets the immigrant gets the best of the country left 
behind.” 

“That’s not always the case,” Hugh argued. “It may 
have been true once, before immigration became a traffic.” 

Winnipeg smiled a broad welcome when they finally 
arrived. The limitless breadth of the prairies was fea- 
tured in her streets, the solidity of Western business was 


FULL OF BRIARS 231 

embodied in her substantial buildings. The world looked 
wide and very fair seen through her eyes. 

“Hullo, you fellows! Thought I’d catch some of you 
about this time of year! How are you, anyway? Stew- 
art, shake! Glad to see you.” 

Hugh could scarcely bring himself to believe that 
this breezy Westerner was the indolent Fyfe Boulding 
of college days. Established though he was in this West- 
ern metropolis, and a mouthpiece of its charms, he was 
hungry for a bit of old academic life, and had found 
time to dash to the station in the hope of meeting old 
confederates. 

He annexed Hugh and the theologue immediately. 
“Look here!” he said. “You fellows want to put the 
day in here. Can’t you moosey round a little till lunch 
and I’ll stand treat at the Alexandra? Then I’ll show you 
the city. I’m an old hand at it now. I dropped college 
last Winter and since then I’ve branched out into a real 
lad o’ pairts.” 

He would take no refusals, and accordingly, early 
that afternoon, they found themselves in a splendid mo- 
tor, bowling out River Avenue, while Fyfe, from his 
seat beside the chauffeur, pointed out the charms of old 
Fort Garry, how much per foot frontage, where the 
moneyed men lived, just which way the city was growing, 
the improvements to this part, the foreign population of 
that, until their heads were whirling. “There’s a fine 
car,” he would say. “Belongs to a Mr. So-and-so, made 
his pile in such and such, that’s their house we’re passing 
now, cost so much per foot frontage and so much for 
furnishing.” 

Presently their talk became more personal. Fyfe began 
to enquire about the students he used to know. “How’s 
the Campbell kid ?” he asked, leaning over the seat of the 


232 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

car as they whirled along the crescent, “Miriam, I mean. 
Did she get her sheepskin ?” 

Now Hugh, having fallen out with or drifted apart 
from Miriam Campbell this last year, with no expla- 
nation on either side, should not have resented the fa- 
miliar tone in which her name was mentioned, espe- 
cially since they were cousins. But resent it he did. 
For he remembered that Miriam used to be on friendly 
terms with this old athletic rival of his. He answered 
briefly that he had scarcely seen her these last few months, 
but that, yes, she had graduated with very good standing. 

“Nice girl she is,” Fyfe reminisced, biting his gloved 
finger, reflectively. “Say, though, there’s a little Ameri- 
can here that beats the Ottawa girls all hollow. She 
and I are great pals. Shouldn’t wonder if we’d hit the 
same trail, eventually. I’d like to introduce you, but it 
might be a risk.” He ran his eye over Hugh signifi- 
cantly. The other man laughed. Hugh nodded, smil- 
ing briefly. He was still put out that Miriam’s name 
should be dragged into the conversation only to suffer 
in comparison with that of some new charmer. 

“What about her cousin?” Fyfe continued, with low- 
ered tone, although everything he said was perfectly au- 
dible to the rest. “Sedley Danvers, I mean. Does he 
still have to watch his wife?” 

Hugh looked blank a moment, then interested. “I did 
not know of it. I will not be hearing any city talk,” 
he said with his strong Highland accent, now excited 
and off guard. “Was his wife after being a flirt, then?” 

Fyfe laughed satirically. “Just what you might no- 
tice. Any one she could pick up.” 

Hugh recalled with no satisfaction to himself the oc- 
casions on which he must have been numbered among 
Mrs. Sedley Danvers’ conquests. Few as these were, 
they were too many for his peace of mind. He had been 


FULL OF BRIARS 


233 

something of a fool not to see through her tactics, per- 
haps a fool in listening to tales of Miriam Campbell. 

They concluded the day’s festivities with a supper at 
the restaurant, for which Fyfe insisted on paying too. 
He seemed to so enjoy playing host, and to be so flush 
with money, that the other men concurred, and about 
10 p. m. they all arrived at the depot in the best of spirits, 
to board No. 97 for the farther West. 


CHAPTER XXII: EXITS AND ENTRANCES 


“They have their exits and their entrances.” 

— As You Like It, Act II, Sc. 7. 


Elizabeth Rutherford sat by the nursery fire drink- 
ing a large cup of cocoa. 

“Can you take another, Mrs. Rutherford? There’s 
more in the jug. You’d better have it if you can.” 

“I really feel as though I couldn’t, but — well, for your 
sweet sake, Baby.” She filled up the cup again. 

“You haven’t put on any of his pretty robes yet.” She 
turned to the nurse, reproachfully. “Won’t you dress 
him up a little this afternoon? He’s three weeks old, 
you know.” 

“Poor honey bunch, he’s happier far in flannelette,” the 
nurse rejoined, giving a pat to the little bundle on her 
knees. “Did his mother want to sacrifice his comfort 
to her vanity? Well, it was mean, so it was.” She 
rose and placed him in the padded basket, then turned 
to the bureau-drawer. “Which dress do you want on 
him, Mrs. Rutherford?” 

“Look, Nurse, he’s going to cry. Hadn’t I better take 
him?” 

The nurse set back the pile of white skirts deliberately. 
“Well, suppose he does cry a little. It won’t hurt him, 
Mrs. Rutherford. It shows he has a good pair of lungs. 
Now you must sit still. He wants you to come to him. 
Just show him he isn’t going to be pampered.” 

“Oh, you don’t think he knows as early as this?” Eliza- 
beth exclaimed, half-sceptical, half-rapturous at the idea 
of this budding intelligence. 

234 


EXITS AND ENTRANCES 235 

“Knows? Of course he does/’ the nurse affirmed with 
remarkable assurance. “He’s saying as plainly as can 
be, ‘Come, mother, quick, I want some attention.’ ” 

“Perhaps he has a pain,” the young mother cried, in 
an agony of longing to defy the nurse and assert her 
maternal prerogative. 

“Oh, nonsense!” that young woman declared. “You’ll 
soon give him a pain, mother, if you get so excited 
every time he squeals.” 

But the demands became more insistent and Elizabeth 
was certain that Baby was hungry. That was a hunger 
cry, she knew. She turned to her pamphlet, “Mother 
and Babe,” which described in detail the various wails 
and their significance. But it lacked twenty minutes to 
the regular feeding-hour and the nurse was obdurate. 
She pronounced it colic and proceeded to unroll the flan- 
nel bundle by the fire, applying hot wads of flannel to 
ten infinitesimal pink toes on the ends of two vigorous 
little limbs. Still the cries increased and no amount of 
stomach-rubbing or heat seemed to lessen its unhappiness. 
Elizabeth half rose from her chair and made as though 
to take the baby. Nurse counselled her to keep quiet 
and not to worry. She would have plenty of occasions 
similar to this before long. It wasn’t altogether colic, 
but a little bit of temper, she thought. Elizabeth re- 
belled at that. A temper so pronounced at three weeks 
seemed to her the height of absurdity. Not a bit of it, 
the nurse assured her. She had seen babies three days 
old scratch like little wildcats. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned 
with indignation. There was no knowing how she might 
have retorted had not a brisk little rat-a-tat-tat sounded 
on the nursery door, and a cheery, round-eyed little 
woman inserted her plump body. By her came trundling 
Miss Vivian Alicia Rutherford, tightly encased in bright 
blue coat and bonnet. 


236 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“Hoity-toity ! What have we here ? Dear me ! Dear 
me! What a terrible fuss! How are you, dear? How 
comfortable you look! I always said I never had a 
good rest until one of the babies came.” Mrs. Dan bent 
down and implanted a kiss on Elizabeth’s flushed cheek. 
She felt that she had her exalted sister-in-law on a com- 
mon plane now. 

Vivian rolled on to a hassock and viewed the nursery 
equipment with a round stare. A plate of fruit nearby 
fascinated her, and a nursing-bottle seemed to recall by- 
gone refections. 

Still the baby wailed. Mrs. Dan with a bright, fa- 
miliar nod in the nurse’s direction proceeded to warm 
her plump hands at the fire, preparatory to taking the 
baby. But she reckoned without her host. Mrs. Dan 
Rutherford, as the mother of three sturdy youngsters, 
might pose as an authority in the eyes of some young 
mammas, but she , graduate nurse, was in no mind to 
brook interference with her case. 

“Come along, then,” said the Mother-of-Three, hold- 
ing out experienced, if short, arms. “Come along, poor 
baby, and we’ll see what’s the matter with you.” 

But the baby having no volition and the nurse no in- 
clination, matters remained in statu quo. 

“Give him to me, Nurse,” said little Mrs. Dan, with 
the assurance born of long acquaintance. 

“Why should I give him to you?” the nurse asked, 
with a touch of asperity. “He has colic, and I’m warm- 
ing his stomach.” 

The round eyes took on an owl-like expression. “He’s 
starving, / should say,” she pronounced with all the 
stored-up wisdom of a threefold experience. 

“That’s what / think, Clara,” Elizabeth asserted, to 
Mrs. Dan’s delight, “but it’s not time yet,” glancing with 
troubled eyes at the clock. 


EXITS AND ENTRANCES 237 

“Time? It’s long past time if you count by his ap- 
petite.” 

“And that is precisely what we do not go by,” said 
the nurse with a professional smile. “Otherwise you 
would have wind on his stomach, restlessness and all 
sorts of troubles for his poor mother.” 

“Nonsense! I never saw a baby yet, restless after a 
good feed. There's Elmer now, he'd take his nursing 
and go off to sleep, sound as a ground hog, but Claude 
would lie on his back for an hour. — For mercy's sake, 
Vivian!” 

Grown dormant from the combined effects of tight 
clothes and a grate-fire, the child rolled suddenly off 
the hassock and struck her head against the fender. Her 
yells mingled with the baby’s wailing created such a 
hubbub in the nursery that the nurse bundled them out, 
mother and child, and to Elizabeth’s unspeakable relief 
deposited her tiny son in her arms, although it was a 
full three minutes before the prescribed hour. 

She was sitting there alone in the full delight of moth- 
erhood, crooning over the wee thing held close to her, 
and thinking of the day she had longed to claim Vivian 
for her own, when a sound of subdued excitement below 
attracted her attention. A moment later the door opened 
quietly and her mother stepped inside. 

“My dear girl !” she said, stooping to kiss her. “I am 
so glad to see you around like this. How is my little 
grandson ?” 

The greeting was natural enough, but there was some- 
thing in her mother's manner that Elizabeth at once de- 
tected. “What is wrong, mother?” she asked in her calm, 
straightforward way. 

“Wrong? Why what do you mean, dear?” her mother 
parried. 

“Well, I know there is something,” the girl rejoined 


238 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

quietly, “and worrying about it will do me far more harm 
than knowing the worst at once.” 

“Oh, there’s no worst — nothing terrible like that. 
Why, it’s only a little annoyance about Cora. She seems 
to have come into the family mainly for that purpose.” 

“Have they had a quarrel?” 

“Sedley never quarrels, Elizabeth, as you know. But 
I think Cora was worked up over some trifle.” 

“She generally is. What was it this time?” 

“Why, Tom was taking her to task for the people 
she consorted with, and she fancied that Sedley had in- 
cited him and charged him with doing so. Sedley was 
too much hurt to deny it, and she went off in a tempest 
and bought her ticket to Toronto. Her husband fol- 
lowed and found her coming out of one of the theatres 
with that Fyfe Boulding — no less! Sedley brought her 
home on the train just now.” 

Elizabeth’s exclamation recalled her mother. “Now, I 
had no right to excite you like this. You must not 
think another bit about her. But what a life that poor 
boy leads! Elizabeth, I have even thought of separa- 
tion.” 

“Tom has said that a dozen times,” Elizabeth was 
beginning, when the nurse came in briskly, tray in hand. 

“Baby asleep?” she said. “Come to my arms, you 
bundle of charms. I’ll put you in your crib.” She 
glanced swiftly at the young mother to see if she were 
upset. No, Elizabeth seemed quite tranquil. 

Mrs. Danvers rose. “Now, I think you should lie 
down, my dear. What do you say, Nurse?” 

“I am just going to send her to bed,” said that young 
lady easily, “after she has eaten her supper. I have all 
sorts of things here that she must take first, though.” 

“I think you need a nap yourself, Nurse,” Elizabeth 
said, smiling over the tea-tray. 


EXITS AND ENTRANCES 239 

“Who? I? Bless you, we aren’t supposed to think 
of such things as naps, Mrs. Rutherford. I was nursing 
a case of nervous breakdown last year, and I can tell 
you it was a bad case — to nurse. As soon as I would have 
her bathed at night and given an alcohol rub, and put four 
hot-water bottles around her to make her comfortable 
and taken her refreshment and said I thought I would 
make ready for night myself, that I needed some sleep, 
she would begin to sob and cry — ‘Sleep? I don’t see 
why you need sleep. I thought you were a trained 
nurse !’ ” 

Elizabeth’s laugh had the tonic effect on her nerves 
that the nurse intended. The arrival of a florist’s box 
completed the cure. 

“How simply charming of him !” exclaimed the young 
mother, lifting out the fragrant, long-stemmed roses in 
delight. “But he should never have been so extravagant, 
that ‘Mr. Hugh Stewart’ ” — she fingered the card in 
gentle protest — “Never in this world. The little that 
I ever did for him has been repaid time and again, if 
one can speak of returning kindness. But, of course, I 
see now/’ She laughed lightly. “He takes a cousinly 
interest in me. And here’s a new term of college start- 
ing for him, and no Miriam! I must try to make up 
for the loss.” 

It was indeed more of a loss than Hugh had dreamed. 
The summer had sped, fleet-footed. Behold his last 
year fronting him ! Back again in the old charmed circle, 
from which the charm had someway gone. 

Hugh was darting up the stairs of the old Arts build- 
ing, three steps at a time, when he knocked right into 
the Professor of Economics. 

“I beg your pardon, Professor,” he exclaimed in con- 
sternation, “I’m awfully clumsy.” 


240 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“That’s all right, Mr. Stewart.” The little nod and 
the smile lighting up the far corners of the face were 
quite friendly. “Were you on your way to the Debating 
Society, Mr. Stewart?” 

“Not this afternoon, Professor. I’m going to the 
library for some ammunition on that essay you gave us.” 

“Oh, yes. Well, there are some books on that line 
that came in just yesterday. You might be interested 
in seeing them, and perhaps get some points. They’re 
critical rather than constructive.” 

He turned with Hugh into the library and with his 
magic, professional key admitted them both into the in- 
ner, book-lined circle. 

“Good morning. Have you listed those books I was 
looking at yesterday?” he enquired genially of the head 
librarian. 

The faint smile which acknowledged his greeting in- 
cluded Hugh in its range. 

“No, not yet, Professor. Another case came in this 
morning, and there are some reviews among them more 
in line with what you wanted. I left them for you to 
compare.” Moving towards a side-table, she picked out 
a volume. “About chapter four he seems to come to 
grips with his subject.” 

The Professor glanced through the book. “Who was 
it that said an author of a book without an index should 
be hanged, drawn and quartered? Yes, there are some 
paragraphs here rather good. I’ll leave them with you, 
Stewart. I’m due in the Senate-room shortly. And by 
the way, we’ll see you to-night at our home? Not at all, 
we are counting on having you.” 

Hugh dropped into a chair in the alcove and essayed 
the fifth chapter. From far down on the campus sounded 
the crisp calls of the tennis players. The clicking of 
the typewriters in the next office mingled with the laugh- 


EXITS AND ENTRANCES 241 

ter of a group of girls out by the stairway. From Di- 
vinity Hall came the chanting chorus of its votaries — 

“Divinity, Divinity, 

Faith, Hope and Charity, 

Swallow-tail coat and poverty.” 

Yet, although the prescribed calm brooded over the 
library proper, Hugh could not study. Because it was too 
early in the term for one's real grind? Perhaps. Be- 
cause so many of “the fellows” had graduated, and so 
many new faces made the college strange? Yes, and 
perhaps because he felt, deep at heart, a loneliness, which 
was not only for Miriam Campbell, but for that nearer, 
though more distant friend, who would no more “rule 
the boys.” His thoughts passed to that quiet, sad spot 
off in Cataraqui. He as quickly recalled them. Geordie 
was not there. The motto on the tablet to his memory 
told his dwelling-place, — 

“Si monumentum requiris, circumspice.” 

His spirit still pervaded Queen’s. In every building, in 
every enterprise, in every lecture, and in every student- 
mind throughout the University, he was an active force. 
If ever the song had meaning, it was now. If ever the 
students were inspired, it was when they sang, 

“Rule, rule, Geordie, 

Geordie rules the boys. 

Oh, what a happy man is Geordie !” 


CHAPTER XXIII: A CARELESS TRIFLE 


“Nothing in his life 
Became him like the leaving it; he died 
As one that had been studied in his death 
To throw away the dearest thing he owed 
As ’twere a careless trifle.” 

— Macbeth, Act I, Sc. 4. 


Miriam came running up the stairs and burst into the 
room. 

“Quietly, quietly, my dear girl,” her mother began. 
Then, seeing signs of excitement, “And what is the dis- 
turbance now? Another college student in town?” 

Miriam laughed, large-heartedly. “You’ll never guess.” 
She flourished a thin sheet of blue paper. “It’s from 
Halifax and Tve got the appointment in English Litera- 
ture and History at the Ladies’ College. The teacher 
they engaged last fall got married suddenly and I’m 
next on the list.” 

Mrs. Campbell felt an inward thrill of gratification. 
She liked to have her daughters sought after. But, as 
was her wont, she restrained her feelings. 

“And do you think you would like to go?” she re- 
plied, with as much reserve as though the pecuniary 
returns were a matter of no moment. Even to her 
own family Mrs. Campbell kept up a show of affluence. 

“I’d be very foolish not to,” Miriam laughed. “I 
expect there would be a good many others glad if I 
didn’t.” 

That remark struck the right chord for the Campbell 
family. They enjoyed envy. 

Pauline broke in quickly. “Pm mighty glad for some 
242 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 243 

other girl I know to find she isn’t the only, only. She’ll 
be quite impressed when she hears of it.” 

Miriam was sure their friend would be only too glad. 
She had been hoping the right opening would appear. 

“Oh, yes,” Pauline changed front quite suddenly. 
“You’ve both had such a feverish idea of life at col- 
lege that you think a normal existence with your own 
family is something to be escaped from as quickly as 
possible. I suppose you’re glad to leave the housework.” 

Miriam, with that letter in her hand, was proof against 
worse thrusts than this. “Of course I am,” she retorted. 
“But if you think you can fill the position in Halifax 
I’ll stay home.” 

Pauline was nettled. A Miriam who could retort like 
that was not to her liking. Her mother took up the 
cudgels. 

“That’s not at all sisterly, Miriam. I am afraid your 
offer may make you overbearing.” 

“What, Miriam overbearing?” Mr. Campbell joined 
the group. “That’s a new state of affairs. Whereas 
the blushing schoolgirl that used to be around here? 
I suppose the college boys put that out of your head.” 

“Oh, Miriam gets that swing to her shoulders only 
when she is home,” Pauline hastened to put in. “At 
college she’d slink along the hall as though she was afraid 
of her life some man would look at her.” 

“That’s not your attitude, Pauline,” Mr. Campbell 
teased. 

“No, Pauline is only afraid that they may not look at 
her,” Miriam retorted. “And instead of slinking she 
sidles and ogles.” 

This was an unreckoned frontal attack on Pauline, 
who was not accustomed to have her broadsides returned. 
She found refuge in the old adjuration. “Now, don’t 
try to get smart, kid.” 


244 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Miriam’s laugh was quite unabashed. “I haven’t told 
you all, Mother,” she continued. “Uncle Owen sent me 
money to go up to Kingston for the Conversat. Isn’t he 
wonderfully kind?” 

“He is, indeed,” Mrs. Campbell said slowly. It irked 
her, though, to receive gifts from anybody. “Of course 
you will find it easy to refuse,” she continued, “since 
you are considering this proposition from Halifax. 
When would your duties commence, should you accept ?” 

Miriam laughed inwardly at the way her mother par- 
ried the decision. But she answered, soberly enough. 
“Why, school opens on the ninth. No, of course I 
can’t go for the Conversat. But I’m going to write Uncle 
Owen and say that if they don’t mind I’ll come for 
Christmas instead.” 

Pauline raised all sorts of objections immediately, and 
Miriam might have found some difficulty in carrying 
through her plan, had not her father lent his support, 
and actually bought her ticket for Kingston. 

There was a stir of excitement in the girl’s blood at 
the thought of seeing all the old friends again. It seemed 
infinitely far removed, that beautiful April day of grad- 
uation, those good-byes to old friends, college, the Lime- 
stone City. Now she returned in a new capacity. How 
glad she would be to see them all again! The story of 
Cora’s mad trip to Toronto had duly reached Ottawa 
and the Campbells had been properly shocked. It was all 
very well for Cora to pretend they had happened to 
meet in Toronto. The meeting had been planned ! Paul- 
ine’s sense of the proprieties was very nice, however near 
to the border-land she might herself venture and she 
had righteously censured Cora and commiserated with 
Sedley on the incident. Young Boulding, being a rela- 
tive of their own, had escaped more easily, for Pauline 
could forgive much in a man, and especially in one with 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 245 

whom she had enjoyed and expected to enjoy so many 
dimly-lighted confidences. 

Miriam herself was heartbroken for Sedley. And the 
one jarring note in her joyful anticipation of Christmas 
was the thought of the strained relations which must 
exist in his home. 

But if they existed, she felt nothing of them. The 
very morning after she arrived in Kingston, from the 
bay-window of the guest-room she saw Sedley swinging 
up the steps and heard his old full laugh in the hall be- 
low. And then she heard him call, “I wonder if there's 
any one from the Ottawa Valley in this house!" 

Hastily fastening her collar, Miriam opened her door 
and ran down the stairs, stumbling against Sedley at the 
bottom. “What’s this about Halifax?” he demanded a 
moment later. 

“I’m appointed teacher in English Literature and His- 
tory at the Ladies’ College, Sedley." 

The little note of importance in her announcement 
amused him vastly. 

“You are, eh?" he returned, smiling broadly. “Poor 
Ladies’ College!" 

Miriam’s sudden discomfiture only heightened his de- 
light. 

“You’ll be giving a special course in Longfellow, won’t 
you,” he pursued, “down in that Evangeline country? 
Of course you will. And setting all the young Blue Noses 
to learning, 

“ ‘There is no light at all in heaven, 

But the white light of stars. 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars/ ” 

He threw back his head and laughed immoderately. 

Dr. Danvers came out of the surgery where he had 


246 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

been reading the paper. He held his glasses between 
thumb and forefinger and his fresh face was alight 
with the glow of the morning. “Well, Sedley,” he said, 
“what do you think of our college girl? Hasn’t done 
too badly, eh?” 

Sedley was looking at his young cousin steadily. “Oh, 
she’s a great girl,” was all he vouchsafed, but his smiling 
eyes said more. 

It seemed as though every one vied with every one 
else to make this Christmas season the happiest possi- 
ble. Miriam felt that they were trying to give her a 
genuine old send-off, and her spirits rose high, with the 
excitement and her new prospects. The snap in the air, 
the challenge of the snow-drifts, and the amorous blue 
of the sky went to her head like a draught of wine. More- 
over she could not help feeling a certain interest in the 
fact that Hugh Stewart was spending his holidays in 
town. She saw him in church the first Sunday that 
she was there, sitting over at the side, his head outlined 
against the stained-glass windows. And though she 
turned swiftly to her hymn-book, nursing her pique and 
reminding herself that their friendship was past, she could 
not help one or two brief glances in his direction, nor 
was there lacking distinct disappointment when she lost 
all sight of him in the outgoing throng. 

That she did so was Hugh’s own fault. Did you ever 
feel so lonely, so anxious for company that you hid 
yourself away from the very thing you craved? Hugh 
was about as homesick as it was possible for a man to 
be, a thousand miles from his family, in a boarding-house, 
a week before Christmas, with his chums away and his 
special girl friend cross with him for no reason at all. 
He had struggled to keep away from church, where he 
knew he would see Miriam, but invisible cords drew him 
thither. And the same mysterious powers led him to 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 247 

a seat exactly on a line with Dr. Danvers’ pew. He ven- 
tured a quick glance, then coloured and looked straight 
ahead. She was as handsome as gold! Actually, she 
was, and he had never noticed that before! John Hielan- 
man was waking up! No, but the girl really had im- 
proved fifty per cent, since the holidays, he kept telling 
himself. And so she was rather a sport, was she? Apt 
to be too talkative and friendly with the sterner sex? 
Hugh frowned at the hymn-book rack. That wasn’t nice. 
No, not at all! Swiftly he shot another glance across 
the crowd. She had her coat off — what a lovely dress! 
No, he could see no details, but the one patent fact suf- 
ficed — Tartan, and scarlet, at that! Now fates get in 
your work! You have the Scotchman down! 

Had Miriam ever dreamed of such witchery lurking 
in the shimmering folds of the silken plaid, for a blouse 
length of which she had exchanged some of Mrs. Dan 
Rutherford’s filthy lucre? Or was it merely something 
in her own blood that needed letting? However it was, 
she felt complacent and at ease that morning and quite 
ready to give the erring a chance to atone. 

But the erring, in the person of the tall, square-shoul- 
dered Nova Scotian, was not so easily waylaid. And 
though the gleam of the scarlet waist and the winning 
light in the brown eyes made a strong pull girl-wards, 
Hugh resolutely turned his stubborn curly head in an- 
other direction and forged through the crowd, home to 
his boarding-house dinner. Hard of heart and stiff- 
necked, he resolved that she and she alone must make the 
move. 

Christmas came on Friday, and all the earlier days of 
the week were a whirl of anticipation and excitement. 
The doctor’s telephone and bell kept pace with the gen- 
eral rush. Grippe was epidemic and one after another 
fell victim while the great march of gift-seekers swept 


248 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

relentlessly past. It was at that stage in the proceed- 
ings when Christmas presents were bought in reckless 
half-dozens and fair eyes were strained by burning mid- 
night oil, when people shopped with a sickly cast of coun- 
tenance, and the air in the stores was laden and thick. 
This was the season when time was reckoned in terms 
of “shopping days,” when nerves were at strain, limbs 
over-tired, brains over-taxed, and a great cry for release 
arose from struggling humanity — release from a burden 
self-imposed, from a poor, human, distorted conception 
of a fitting celebration of the birth of peace! 

And yet there was the other side of the picture. And 
for many Christmas-tide drew near in purity and self- 
lessness. An undercurrent of still joy pulsed in their 
hearts. The air was humming with music, the stars 
pointed fingers of silver light, the earth was flooded with 
radiance wherein duties shone as delights. 

Miriam coaxed her aunt to let her decorate the house 
with greens. The family reunion was to be held at the 
doctor’s that year. “We can have them taken down be- 
fore they dry and fall,” she said; “and they smell so 
Christmasy. Sedley loves them, Aunt Ellen. It will 
make the house delightful.” So her aunt concurred and 
the doctor’s man drove her out to the woods, where they 
filled the cutter high with greens. 

Christmas morning Miriam was awake very early. 
She stole downstairs before any one was up, to put her 
presents on the tree. The house was warm and sweet 
with the heavy fragrance of the spruce. The shaded 
hush of the drawing-room with the tall Christmas-tree 
looming out of the shadows was ghost-like. She gave 
an involuntary shiver, despite the warmth of the room. 
Yet it was very cold outside, to judge from the frost 
on the panes. Glorious for their skate on the lake! 

There was something awesome in this early Christmas 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 249 

morning. She stole to the window and looked across 
the silent park. Through the tips of the evergreens the 
light was creeping. Cold and white lay the snow be- 
neath. 

“Before the paling of the stars, 

Before the winter morn. 

Before the earliest cock-crow, 

Jesus Christ was born; 

Born in a stable. 

Cradled in a manger, 

In the world His hands had made, 

Born a stranger.” 

It came to her in sudden illumination, the solemn, 
lonely birth of the Saviour of the World. His still lone- 
ly heart brooding over the world where He had lived, 
waiting to catch the faintest note of real welcome, and, 
as if in answer, the lines of an old English carol sang 
themselves in her heart. 

“Sleep, in my soul enshrined rest : 

Here find Thy cradle neatly drest : 

Forsake me not when sore distrest, 

Immanuel, my Brother blest.” 

There was a full table at the doctor's for Christmas 
dinner. Cora said for mercy’s sake to bring Baby Cas- 
par down, for she never could enjoy her dinner with an 
unlucky number like thirteen. When Tom reminded 
her that it was Friday as well she gave a little shriek 
of horror which made Fyfe Boulding laugh. 

How under the heavens did Fyfe manage to be every- 
where? How could they stand the sight of him? What 
was he doing in Kingston, after settling in Winnipeg? 
Or was it Regina? Did he ever settle anywhere? It 
must have required some grace on Sedley’s part to tol- 
erate his presence. 

There was a sound of little feet scuffling below, small 


250 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

voices piping up, and a general scramble and turmoil. 
“There are Clara and Dan with the kiddies,” Elizabeth 
exclaimed. “Why, I’m glad Baby’s asleep. I’ll bank him 
up on the couch and we can go down for dinner. Yes, 
there’s the bell. Oh, I should have helped mother.” 

But Mrs. Danvers emerged radiant from the dining- 
room. Christmas was her special day of all the year. 
Her zeal and enthusiasm were limitless, and from any- 
thing in which Mrs. Danvers put her heart there was 
not an item lacking. She greeted them all with charm- 
ing grace and led the way to the dining-table, her cheeks 
like roses, her dark eyes sparkling. Sedley and Eliza- 
beth could hardly escape their winning ways with such 
cordial and warm-hearted parents. 

Dinner went off with a swing. At its conclusion Claude 
and Elmer Rutherford rolled out of the dining-room in 
a high state of satisfaction. 

“Every one off for the lake!” Tom called. Elizabeth 
was upstairs, attending to the baby. “Ice is perfect, 
weather is perfect, hurry up and get your skates.” 

“You aren’t going to attempt skating, are you, Eliza- 
beth?” The round-eyed look of concern in Mrs. Dan’s 
eyes as she called up to her sister-in-law delighted Eliza- 
beth’s husband. 

“Of course she is,” he cried. “Grandmother is going 
to mind the baby. Come on yourself, Clara!” 

Clara rather liked being asked, but protested that she 
would not risk catching cold. There was nothing more 
dangerous than standing around on cold ice. Elizabeth 
was certainly unconcerned to leave the baby in that fash- 
ion. She could never bring herself to do it, though Claude 
would never cry after her, but Elmer, now, used to lie 
on the floor and scream until he was blue in the face. 
And Vivian 

Tom cut short her discursions by bundling them out, 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 251 

skates and all, Sedley, Cora, Miriam, Elizabeth, and Fyfe. 
They made a merry, jingling party, swinging down the 
street in the bright Christmas sunshine. 

“For mercy’s sake, don’t go so fast, Tom,” Cora called 
out as they went down the steep bank. “I’ll be on my 
head in a moment.” 

Sedley turned to give her his hand, smiling up into her 
petulant face. “Tom thinks he’s late for a lecture,” he 
put in. “Hurry, Tom, I hear them calling ‘Slope! 
Slope!’ ” 

“It’s a slope, sure enough,” young Boulding drawled, 
plunging and sliding after them. 

Every one laughed. Laughter came easily in that crisp 
air. They all sat down on the hulk of a rowboat to put 
on their skates. 

“My, this feels good,” Miriam cried, lacing up her 
boots. “I wonder if they’ll have skating in Halifax.” 

“You must not be so concerned about dissipation.” 
Tom shook his head at her. “The teacher of English 
Literature and History will have to be above such frivoli- 
ties. Oh, what an important person you will be!” He 
swelled out his chest and squared his thin shoulders. 

Cora laughed shrilly at the pantomime. She thought 
it was a joke on Miriam. Tom followed up his advantage 
by asking her for a skate. He may have had an ulterior 
motive, for certain it is he looked satisfied at seeing Eliza- 
beth follow with Fyfe Boulding. That left the last two 
paired as he wished. 

On to the great lake, thronged with people, and beyond 
the crowds, up the shining expanse they sped, pleasure in 
every movement. The cool fresh air blew in their faces, 
the even strokes made their pulses stir, and every nerve 
tingled with the warm rush of blood through their veins 
as they “hissed along the polished ice.” 

Fyfe was a splendid skater and Elizabeth found her 


252 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

old-time swing returning. No one had looked more grace- 
ful on the ice than Elizabeth Danvers in her college days, 
and Tom from behind watched her graceful, lithe figure 
with a glow of pride. His own pace was slower, for 
Cora was constantly complaining of her boots or her 
skates or the rough ice. 

Miriam and Sedley overtook them in a few moments. 

“These beastly boots,” Cora was saying. “My ankles 
turn around inside of them. Why did you lace them so 
loosely, Sedley?” She knelt on the ice and began to jerk 
at the laces. 

Sedley shivered suddenly. “What’s the matter?” Tom 
asked. “Are you cold? You’re not taking grippe, are 
you?” 

Sedley shook his head. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. 
He took off his coat and put it on the ice. “If you’ll sit 
down I’ll fix them, Cora,” kneeling in front of her. 

“Perhaps they’d better not wait for us,” Cora said. “I 
think the other boot needs fixing too.” 

Tom saw her little ruse but was too quick for her. 
“I’ll fix it for you,” he cried. “You must not keep Sedley 
too long without his overcoat. It’s getting cold.” He 
dropped beside Sedley, while Miriam moved back and 
forth. “There, now, away you go, you two. We’ll fol- 
low more slowly. We were just getting started talking 
about Ottawa.” 

Sedley held out his hand to Miriam, smilingly. “How 
fast can you skate ?” he asked. “I want to get my blood 
moving. Strike out now, that’s the way!” 

They fell into long, even strides, joying in the rhythmic 
movement, and soon out-distanced Tom and Cora. The 
crowd was thinner now. Not many ventured as far up 
as this. Gradually they slackened their pace. The wide 
silence of the ice with only the booming crack at inter- 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 253 

vals was both solitary and companionable. Sedley, look- 
ing behind saw a lone man following. 

“It’s young Stewart,” he said, turning to Miriam with 
a sudden questioning smile. “Shall we wait for him?” 

Miriam was too vividly joyous for embarrassment. 
“Hugh Stewart?” she said, throwing up her chin. “Oh, 
i we’re not speaking. Come on!” She pulled Sedley for- 
i ward gaily. 

“What’s the trouble?” Sedley asked quickly. 

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s nursing some imaginary 
grievance.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” said Sedley. Then, suddenly facing 
her. “Stewart is very fond of you, Miriam,” he said. 

The hand he held trembled slightly. “No, he’s not!” 
she denied. 

“What makes you think he isn’t?” 

She shook her head knowingly. Sedley looked at her 
I a moment, then pressed his enquiries further. “You 
| like him, don’t you?” 

Miriam faltered. With any one else she might have 
j parried. With Sedley she must always tell the absolute 
truth. “Yes, I d-do,” she stammered, defiantly. 

“Of course you do !” Sedley laughed exultantly. Then 
1 his face grew strangely tender. “Miriam, my dear little 
| cousin,” he said, very earnestly, “if love, such as I might 
imagine his to be, ever comes to you, do not hold it 
lightly. Love, strong and true — life has no richer treas- 
ure.” 

“Sedley!” Elizabeth’s voice called out from far up on 
the bank. “Here I am! Where are the rest?” 

“On behind. Where’s Boulding?” Sedley shouted, 
striking nearer. 

“That’s what I’m wondering. I’m nervous,” she re- 
turned. “I was tired and he said he’d skate farther up 


254 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

and come back. He skated off backwards. I don’t know 
what’s keeping him. I want to get back to Baby.” 

Then it came, sinister, direful, awful, that cry for suc- 
cour. “Help ! Help ! Help !” up the shore of the lake. 

The colour fled from the girls’ faces. Elizabeth gave 
a convulsive sob. 

“He’s drowning, Sedley, quick!” 

She scrambled, falling down the bank. Sedley was 
already speeding towards the sound. “Keep back!” he 
shouted. “The ice is thin. Keep off from danger! Back, 
girls, go back!” 

But still the girls followed, screaming for help as they 
went, on and on, their cries carried backward on the 
wind. And then they saw the sight they never would 
forget, a black spot of water with jagged ice around, and 
Sedley on hands and knees creeping over nearer, nearer, 
cautiously stretching his hockey stick to where two hands 
were clutching at the treacherous rim, nearer, nearer 

Miriam turning in an agony of terror saw that lonely 
figure striking out towards them. 

“Hugh, Hugh!” she cried in agony. “Hurry! Tom! 
Come, Tom!” 

They are coming now from all quarters. The ice is 
blackening with fleet figures. Will it be too late? The 
girls are lying flat and Elizabeth has caught Sedley’s foot 
and Miriam, Elizabeth’s, and the living chain moves 
nearer. Slowly, slowly, and oh, how carefully ! Up, up, 
and cautiously, cautiously! Out of the deathly waters, 
over the treacherous edge, Fyfe Boulding is drawn to 
safety. Then, just as the cry of thanksgiving rises to 
their lips, the ice gives way under the double strain, 
there is an ominous crack, the sound of a heavy body 
splashing down, and as Boulding creeps to safety Sedley 
Danvers goes down, down, into the icy waters of Lake 
Ontario. 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 255 

Stretch out your stick to save hjm now! If he can 
come up! Will he strike under the ice? Will the cur- 
rent bear him away? Or is there a chance, one chance 
in a thousand, that he may be seen again? The crowd 
presses nearer, strong arms stretch out to aid. Yes, there 
it is, that dark, struggling, helpless object at the edge of 
the break. Too late! Down, down it goes, while a cry 
of anguish breaks from the lips of the onlookers. Once 
more, once more it comes. Now, men, now! They 
reach him, they catch him, they drag him out, white and 
sodden and spent. Miriam, turning in horror from that 
death-like form, looks into Hugh Stewards face. 

“Oh, Hugh!” she screams. “Take me home! Take 
me home ! Sedley is drowned ! Don’t you see ? Sedley is 
drowned !” 

But no ! It is a collapse, consequent on shock and ex- 
haustion. They have carried him home to his father’s 
house, and half the doctors of Kingston are there to save 
this doctor’s son. Cora’s raving hysteria has been quieted 
by a strong sedative and the struggle for life begins. 
Poor Fyfe Boulding, in an adjoining room, rolled in hot 
blankets, learns that their great fear is of congestion. 
Had he Boulding’s physique there might be hope. But 
the doctors say his strength is depleted. He cannot put 
up a good fight. Long hours of confinement, months of 
strain, nervous depression, have drawn upon his little 
stock in trade, and the foe makes rapid strides. 

Miriam, praying, crouched outside the door ; Elizabeth, 
for her baby’s sake bravely trying still to hope ; his mother 
in the calmness of absolute despair; the doctor, his father, 
with all the other doctors, working and praying and hop- 
ing always ; they each pass through their own Gethsemane. 
If it were any one but Sedley, fine, pure-souled, heroic 
Sedley, with his life of crushing disappointment and 


256 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

noble endeavour, any one but Sedley, radiant, tender, 
great-hearted Sedley. Must he be the one to go? 

Through Christmas night they watch and wait. Over 
and over, pitifully clinging to the words, Miriam repeats 
the lines of that old carol. When had she said it before ? 
Was it only this morning, this Christmas morning? 

“Forsake me not when sore distrest, 

Immanuel, my Brother blest.” 

“When sore distrest, when sore distrest. Oh, God, spare 
him! Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy 
name! Spare him! Save him! Sedley! Save him!” 

The long night wore away, and with the morning came 
news that Sedley was worse. They feared pneumonia 
now. Cora had slept off her first hysteria, and wanted 
to take her place in the sick-room. The nurse was ob- 
durate. There was danger of a scene by the door of 
his room had not Tom been called. Cora’s mind was 
still dulled and she made little resistance when he took 
her away. She did not realise, nor could they bring them- 
selves to tell her, how Sedley was yielding in the struggle. 

And so the hours dragged on and another day came 
and went, and hope grew fainter. It was on Sunday 
evening just as the church bells were sounding out their 
call to divine service and the last worshippers were 
gathering inside the lighted doors, that Sedley Danvers 
heard the one clear call. 

Miriam was sitting crouched in her old corner outside 
his door. It was ajar, but a screen hid all inside the room 
from her view. The pathos of this quiet, snowy Sab- 
bath evening and the sound of the bells, and the stillness 
which followed, drew tears from eyes which she had 
thought were too spent for weeping. Then in a fresh 
abandonment of grief she buried her face in her arms 
and gave way completely. 


A CARELESS TRIFLE 257 

In her convulsive sobbing she did not hear the move- 
ment inside his room. She felt someone brush past her 
as she crouched in the shadows — Elizabeth — it was Eliza- 
beth. “Come Miriam, quick!” and she found herself 
passing through the door and around the screen and 

then His mother knelt by his side, her face against 

his white hand. The doctor — what a grey face her uncle 
had ! — his head was pressed against the wall, but he was 
watching. Cora was not there. Even in that moment 
Miriam was glad of this. What if she had marred these 
last quiet minutes with some hysterical outburst! Miriam 
looked with a curious, detached interest at all the occu- 
pants of the room, and at the last her eyes rested on 
that dear face among the pillows. Sedley was just at the 
borderland. 

“Cora,” he whispered. It was the only word he had 
spoken. 

His mother’s face flushed. She signed to Tom to 
bring her. 

“Cora!” he whispered again, more faintly now. But 
he could not linger. There had come a Herald from the 
King, commanding his presence in fields of service 
broader than were given Sedley Danvers here to cultivate, 
where his high endeavour would be unhampered by 
earthly weights, and his lofty ideals would escape the 
blight of the mistake of time and circumstances, and come 
to an abiding fruition. And Sedley “passed, not softly 
yet speedily, into that still country, where the hail-storms 
and fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden way- 
farer at length lays down his load 1” 


CHAPTER XXIV: PLAYING HOLIDAYS 


“If all the year were playing holidays 
To sport would be as tedious as to work." 

— King Henry IV, Part I, Act I, Sc. 2. 

For three days, rain had come down in torrents. It 
had poured out of the lowering clouds as though it could 
never stop. It had flooded the streets, turning gutters 
into streams, and drains into miniature waterfalls. Small 
rivulets had flowed over the pavements, inundating the 
unwary pedestrians, and the horses splashed along the 
muddy streets. Halifax had presented a most unattrac- 
tive picture. 

And then the sun had parted its cloud-curtains and 
showed its shining face. The air had left its dampness in 
old Neptune’s keeping and came clear and dry into the 
nostrils, and the madcap winds had played havoc up and 
down the hilly streets until the grey old sea-girt city for- 
got its tears and turned its very best face to the world 
on that charming morning in May. 

Hurrying along Pleasant Street, head erect, eyes bright, 
steps brisk, the young teacher of English literature in the 
Ladies’ College made her way downtown. It was Em- 
pire Day — a holiday, which made the excursion a possi- 
ble thing, and there were things she needed. 

Miriam Campbell’s spirits had been very low these 
last few days. It takes a superb faith or a very satis- 
factory environment to make it possible to defy the ele- 
ments when they spell monotony. A hot wave, an old- 
fashioned blizzard, or howling winds may be laughed to 
scorn, but the monotony of steady floods of rain is most 
apt to be depressing. 


25S 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 259 

She had tried to rise above it. With her old recourse 
to poetry she had quoted belligerently, 

“Pour rain! 

You cannot get into my heart, 

Or put out the fire in my soul. 

I am here in a beautiful realm apart 
Where the angels of light patrol. 

You are good, it is true, for the flowers and the grain. 

But you beat at the door of my heart in vain.” 

She had come through nearly five months of new ex- 
periences. It had been far more pleasant than even her 
anticipation. How true it is that one’s troubles come 
from an unexpected quarter ! Miriam’s had not been from 
loneliness. The city was perfectly strange to her but 
from the outset the charm of its beautiful situation and 
historical interest had laid fast hold of her heart. And 
it would have been impossible to receive greater kind- 
ness from its hospitable citizens. She soon came to be 
known and invited to the homes of her pupils, to homes 
of the alumnae and of other cultured people of Halifax. 

Nor had Miriam suffered from embarrassment in her 
immediate duties. Away from the shadow of the Uni- 
versity walls a new independence blossomed out, and she 
found herself more than able to live up to her reputation. 
Coming from “the West” she held a certain glamour for 
her pupils, and the distinctive flavour of her University 
made a pleasing variety in the intellectual circle in which 
she moved. She, herself, profited a good deal by coming 
in contact with a fresh institution of learning, and finding 
that the world held other colleges than her own, with 
their own peculiar imprint and valuation. 

It was in the classroom that Miriam really scored. 
For, once confronted with her old friends the poets, 
she entirely forgot her reserve and poured into the ears 
of the girls before her such a flood of appreciation, criti- 


260 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

cism and explanation as made them gasp. To hear her 
quote whole pages of poetry, to listen to her anecdotes of 
literary geniuses, to catch and remember the descriptive 
terms she gave off, was at once the despair and admira- 
tion of the classroom. She was like a pony let loose 
in a field of clover. 

The history lessons were not at all easy. It was al- 
ways difficult for Miriam to pin herself to exact data, to 
remember dates, to give with absolute surety the facts 
of a case, and for the first few weeks she was constantly 
backing down from some position she had taken, cor- 
recting herself, turning to her history for confirmation, 
and the mischievous spirits in the room were afforded 
great sport. But when there was occasion for descriptive 
powers or her imagination was given a chance, “Miss 
Campbell” covered over all former slips and once more 
made firm her footing in her pupils’ estimation. Her de- 
fect as a teacher was probably just here — that she did 
not sufficiently draw out her scholars. That she flooded 
them with all the information she possessed, giving little 
chance to their own powers of thought and observation. 

But, on the whole, Miriam felt glad over her Winter’s 
work, and her depression was not radical. But the ar- 
rival of a letter from Elizabeth that morning, with an 
account of the Convocation exercises, had made her sud- 
denly lonely, lonely for the dear, dead days beyond re- 
call. 

Elizabeth had given her a detailed account of Hugh 
Stewart’s many honours, and as Miriam made her way 
along the streets she imagined herself seated in Grant 
Hall, watching him come to the platform and hearing the 
applause of the gallery. By this time he would probably 
be on his way to Regina, ever widening the distance be- 
tween them. When would they meet again, if ever? 
Canada seemed a trackless waste and the prairies infinitely 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 261 

removed from the girl away down by the sounding At- 
lantic. 

She made her purchases and walked along towards a 
bookstore to refresh her spirits. A bookstore where you 
could browse at will was an untold delight. Idly she 
turned over two or three volumes, scanning their titles, 
glancing at their chapters, reading a page or so, here and 
there. Then she came upon one that caught her atten- 
tion and held it. Leaning against the shelf, her back to 
the rest of the store, oblivious to all going out or in, she 
read on and on. 

Into her dream world floated a sound oddly familiar, 
a tone that struck a responsive chord in her memory, a 
voice which she surely knew. 

“Still at it? Can’t stop studying?” 

She stared at him a full moment as though he were 
as unreal as the character in the book. 

“Why, Hugh!” she began in bewilderment and then 
coloured swiftly. “I thought you were going to Regina,” 
she concluded. 

“So I am — eventually.” 

“Well, you’ve come a long way down to get started,” 
she laughed. “Are you staying in Halifax? When did 
you come?” 

They walked up Barrington Street together. The 
fresh smell of the earth mingled with the warm breath 
of Spring, the grass on the Parade looked vividly green, 
and people were stepping gaily along the streets, joyed at 
the prospect of the holiday. Many interested glances were 
directed towards Miriam and the six feet of man beside 
her, his features showing clean-cut under his hat. He 
was telling her of his fortnight’s visit to Cape Breton. 

“What’s it like in Spring?” she asked. 

“Oh, they’re seeding now. The mud is simply awful. 


262 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Alan was after telling me I’d brought some with me 
from Regina.” 

“Why, is Regina specially muddy?” 

The young man laughed. “Prairie land, you know. 
Good for No. I Northern. Well, how do you like teach- 
ing?” 

“Much better than I thought I would,” Miriam said 
frankly. “There are some of our girls coming now. We 
had Empire exercises this morning and this afternoon’s 
a holiday.” 

Hugh revolved this fact for a few minutes. The coL 
lege girls passed them and he lifted his hat mechanically, 
missing their curious smiles. His mind was working 
towards a definite conclusion. 

“Can’t we go somewhere to celebrate?” he said finally, 
as though a sudden thought had visited him. 

“Why I suppose we might. Where did you mean?” 

Hugh’s ideas as to destination were vague. He had a 
general feeling that he would like to entertain her in some 
way, to wipe off old scores. That was largely why he 
had come to Halifax. He had meant to buy a book and 
some chocolates and call at the Ladies’ College. 

“The Citadel ?” he suggested uncertainly. 

Miriam made a secret grimace. The Citadel was the 
last place she wanted to visit. The Spring air wakened 
desire for something more romantic. 

“How about the North West Arm?” she hazarded. 

“Why, all right!” he returned. He was a little un- 
certain as to what they were to do there, but as long 
as she wanted it 

“Would you rather I’d get a team and we’d go for a 
drive?” Hugh was fond of horses himself. 

“No, I just feel like having a boat-ride. There’s a 
livery on South Street. It’s really hot, now. It will be 
glorious on the water.” 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 263 

And so it was. Hugh had never expected to enjoy 
anything as he did that afternoon. There was a. ripple 
on the waves that sent a gurgling noise against the side 
of the boat, as it danced along with the even strokes of 
the oars. The banks on either side were all a tender 
green, and the slim shoots of white birch clustering near 
the shore mingled fascinatingly with the trunks of the 
maples, pines and oak trees. It was 

“In such a time as goes before the leaf, 

When all the wood stands in a mist of green. 

And nothing perfect.” 

“So college is over for you, too,” Miriam said, mus- 
ingly, trailing her fingers in the green water. 

The young man nodded. “I’m not sorry either, in a 
good many ways.” 

“Oh, why?” she cried. “I was nearly heartbroken at 
leaving it all.” 

“Oh, it’s fine while it lasts,” he agreed. “But the time 
comes when you feel that college is too small for you. 
You want to get clear of it and get to work.” 

“I never worked harder in my life than I did over 
Senior Philosophy,” she contended. 

“Well, but along a certain groove, stooped over a book. 
This is life now.” He swung back his shoulders and the 
boat shot ahead at the strong stroke of the oars. 

“This is play,” she corrected. 

“Play for you,” he laughed; “and life is play as well 
as work, isn’t it? But what I meant by ‘this* was my 
graduation and our new duties and the wide world facing 
us.” 

“And college as a fine background,” she supplemented. 

“Exactly.” Then, a moment later, “You’d like the 
West,” he continued, quite irrelevantly. 

“I’m sure I wouldn’t.” 


264 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“Yes, indeed. I know better.” 

“You may know the West better, but you don’t know 
me!” 

“I know you better than you do yourself, Miss Camp- 
bell r 

“Indeed you don’t! You hardly know anything about 
me, Mr. Stewart !” 

“Don’t I? It’s not my fault then. Do you know 
whom I saw in Winnipeg last Summer? Your Cousin 
Fyfe Boulding.” Something mischievous lurked in his 
eyes. He kept them fixed on her. 

Of course she had to blush. She despised herself for 
doing it, and Hugh for watching her. 

“Did you? What, is he at, there?” Very cool and 
unconcerned was her voice. “He’s a wandering Jew, 
if ever there was one.” 

Hugh looked away across the rippling waves. “Well, 
his interest seemed divided between real estate and some 
handsome young American girl he had met who had ap- 
parently turned his head. I didn’t get to meet her then. 
Perhaps I may this time.” A wicked smile played round 
his mouth. 

Miriam was serenely unconcerned. Blush she might 
at the personal turn which the conversation had taken, 
but the existence of the American girl stirred no pangs 
of jealousy. She might have given him later news of 
Fyfe, indeed, for she had heard from him herself, since 
coming to Halifax. It was a Regina law office now that 
held him. If Hugh thought he could worry her about 
Fyfe, let him try! 

“Real estate!” she murmured. “I can hardly recon- 
cile that with his Omar Khayyam. Imagine quoting, 

“ We are no other than a moving row 
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go,’ 

when you were trying to push a deal.” 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 265 

“Just imagine !” he laughed. “They’d hit the trail!” 

The bit of Western slang was quite involuntary, and 
they laughed together. It was drawing towards sunset, 
and the waves lisped against the shore. From the Dingle 
came the voices of adventurous picnickers, the first of the 
season. They were perched on the rocks, eating and 
chatting hilariously. 

It seemed a sacrilege of Nature’s loveliness to think of 
pulling shoreward, but Miriam remembered her duties 
and reluctantly spoke of them. 

The idea of bringing this golden afternoon to a close 
put consternation into Hugh’s heart. He had meant to 
say so much, clear up past misunderstandings, to take 
further steps in their friendship, and here it was time 
to go back. Things moved too quickly for a Scotch- 
man. He rested on his oars a moment, looking at her 
in the full flood of sunset. 

“Have you given up writing letters, Miss Campbell?” 

“To people who don’t answer them, yes.” 

“But if they promise and covenant and furnish se- 
curity ? Besides, I did answer it. Wait you, now.” He 
pulled the oars in further, holding them with his knees, 
and fumbled at his watch chain. 

“Did you ever see one of these?” he asked passing a 
charm to her. 

She examined it curiously. “No. I was wondering 
about it all afternoon.” 

That sounded strange, she thought, but Hugh took no 
notice. “It’s the foot of a prairie chicken, mounted,” 
he told her. “I think a great deal of it. I got it from 
a chap out in the Land Titles office. He was killed in that 
wreck at Spanish River. An awfully fine fellow, he 
was.” 

Miriam handed it back, reverently. 

“No, I want you to keep it.” It was Hugh’s turn to 


266 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

look embarrassed. “It’s a souvenir of the West, you 
know, where I’m going, and it will be a sort of hostage 
or surety that I’ll write two for every one letter you 
send me.” 

She laughed at his sentiment, but fastened the charm 
to her watch chain as he had done. It would rouse the 
curiosity of the college girls, that prairie chicken’s foot. 
Quietly they rowed shoreward. 

“What are you doing this evening?” Hugh asked sud- 
denly, just before they touched the dock. “My train 
does not go until late,” he suggested. 

“I’m really dreadfully sorry, but I’m due at the Or- 
pheus Hall. The Orpheus Club have their annual concert 
to-night, and I’ve promised to help them.” 

“Do you sing ?” he asked. 

“No, but I usher.” 

“Usher?” 

She laughed at his astonishment. “Yes, really. This 
is a special kind of concert, ladies only, you know. Oh, 
of course gentlemen are eagerly welcomed in the audi- 
ence. But we do everything else, sell tickets, look after 
the office, usher, distribute programmes, sing, play, every- 
thing in fact. But couldn’t you come anyway? The 
choruses are really fine. And if you can get a seat on 
the extreme east side, I’ll be delighted to show you to it.” 

Hugh agreed with alacrity. Seven-thirty found him at 
the hall, and, although the only seat available was in the 
very front row, he made no objection, for there was a 
pleasing novelty in following in Miriam’s white wake 
down the length of the hall. He found himself right 
in front of the high platform where he had to strain his 
head back to catch sight of the performers. They were 
strangers to him in any case. He was more interested 
in the ushers. 

The place was filled, packed and overflowing. Men 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 267 

there were in plenty, but all tucked away harmlessly in 
the seats, while the young ladies fluttered here, there and 
everywhere. The singers came in and took their places, 
the orchestra tuned up, the accompanist struck the open- 
ing chords and the programme swung along. 

Despite his cramped position Hugh enjoyed it hugely. 
There was an abandon in this jaunt to Halifax, a free- 
dom in the thought of Western life, that lent themselves 
to jollity. He applauded the numbers and laughed with 
the other men at the girls so much in evidence. They 
were preparing for a full chorus now, and the grand 
piano must be moved to the other side of the platform. 
A shout went up as a group of girls bore down upon 
the unwieldy mass. The difficulty was in getting it 
started and two or three of the ushers ran up from be- 
low to help. They grasp at the end of the instrument 
and pull it forward as though they would show all men 
how strong they are, how self-sufficient. Egged on by the 
cheers of the men, not gauging the force of their united 
strength, hilarious in their new role, they give a mighty 
push and pull. The ponderous piano skids across the 
sloping platform, and sways almost over the edge, with a 
bevy of girls underneath. 

Hugh springs to his feet. With all the weight of his 
big body he flings himself against the tumbling mass? 
There is a forward rush of men, a confusion of figures, 
a tumult of voices, and then some one calls out shrilly, 
“Nobody hurt,” and the audience breathes a swift, incred- 
ulous sigh of relief. 

In a moment the platform is black with men — fathers, 
lovers, brothers, husbands, appear as by magic, crowding 
up the steps in eager alarm. It is pathetic and ludicrous, 
too, to behold these banished males, now so greatly in 
evidence, these mere men, who could not be tolerated in 


268 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

moving the piano, yet whose strong arms in the critical 
moment stayed proceedings and averted an awful catas- 
trophe. 

The girls assume an air of bravado. How were they 
to know that the floor was worn smooth, that the plat- 
form sloped a little, and that a piano once set in mo- 
tion almost runs itself? They rubbed their elbows laugh- 
ingly, made light of the fright and prepared for the next 
number. The grand piano is injured slightly. So the 
smaller one is put into requisition, and the programme 
proceeds as before. Music hath powers to soothe, and 
the nerves of the audience are at concert pitch. 

Out in the corridor Hugh is getting into his overcoat. 
He has only fifteen minutes to reach the station. The 
excitement nearly puts all thought of the trip out of his 
mind. If he could only see Miriam and make sure that 
she was really unhurt ! 

The voice at his elbow startled him. “Are you going, 
Mr. Stewart ?” 

He wheeled around. How white her face was ! “Did 
you get hurt? I was afraid that you struck the side of 
the platform,” he exclaimed. 

“I did scrape my hip a little,” she confessed. “But 
that’s nothing. We might have been dreadfully hurt.” 

“Indeed, yes,” Hugh returned earnestly. “It was a very 
near thing. I hope you won’t feel any the worse for 
it.” He pulled out his watch. “I’ll have to run,” he ex- 
claimed. 

“Oh, Miss Campbell,” two of the ushers burst in. 
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We thought 
you must have been badly hurt. Wasn’t it simply awful 1 
Why, when I saw ” 

Hugh had to cut across their expletives and say good- 
bye to Miriam. The girls drew back a little when they 


PLAYING HOLIDAYS 269 

saw his endeavour, but there was no chance for more 
than a hurried handshake. Then he had run down 
the step and away, and Miriam had no mind to satisfy 
their gushing enquiries, nor respond to their compliments 
over her handsome friend. 


CHAPTER XXV: BAD NEWS ILL-BROUGHT 


“Though it be honest it is never good 
To bring bad news ” 

— Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Sc. 5 

They were preparing for the garden party in connec- 
tion with the closing of the Ottawa Ladies' College. 
Pauline hovered anxiously over her own reflection. One 
had to spend more time “titivating” as the years passed. 

“What are you wearing?” she said, peering keenly at 
her sister's preparations. “Your new silk? Well, so 
shall I. Might as well look one's best. You won't know 
many, will you? You've been away for two years now.” 

Mrs. Campbell joined the girls at that moment. She 
gave a swift survey of Miriam. “You look quite smart,” 1 
was her pronouncement. There is likely to be a vacancy 
on the staff of this college. I imagine you might stand a 
good chance. Talk brightly with any one you meet con- 
nected with the institution. And see, Miriam, you had 
better put on a string of beads.” 

Miriam was secretly amused at the idea of a bright 
smile and a string of beads procuring her an appoint- 
ment to the staff. Nevertheless, she adorned her neck, 
hoping that the smile might occur to her later. Privately 
she was not anxious for the appointment. She had lost 
her heart to the grey old city by the sea, she loved her 
life of independence there, and looked forward to return- 
ing in the Fall. 

But she smiled her brightest and looked her prettiest 
and succeeded, to her mother's gratification, in evoking 
quite a bit of attention. They were talking to one of 
270 


BAD NEWS ILL-BROUGHT 271 

the teachers under a spreading maple tree, where the 
orchestra was discoursing sweet music. 

“You have had a long journey up, Miss Miriam. Do 
you know we have people here this afternoon from all 
over Canada? Why, your cousin was asking for you — 
Mr. Boulding — just a minute ago. He's all the way from 
Regina, as you know/ 1 

“Fyfe here?” Mrs. Campbell said swiftly. “Oh, he’ll 
find us out. I shall not worry.” 

“I've heard great stories of that young man,” the 
teacher continued, impressively. “Some one told me he 
had just put through a big deal in real estate which 
netted him considerable money. That's the place to 
make your footing.” 

Mrs. Campbell’s interest quickened at the mention of 
financial prosperity. 

The young teacher was encouraged to continue. “He’s 
talking University to all the girls,” she laughed, “and no 
other will do but Queen's. That's where he went him- 
self and you know how clannish ” she stopped 

abruptly, remembering Miriam. 

Miriam laughed good-naturedly. She was not at all 
offended. Her sojourn among Dalhousians had toned 
down the intense college spirit that marked all the children 
of her Alma Mater. She had come to recognise and en- 
joy the larger fraternity of university graduates the 
Dominion over. 

“Yes, I know,” she said smilingly. “I wonder where 
Fyfe is? Isn't he the wandering Jew! He pops up 
everywhere. You never know where next you may see 
him.” A curiosity to meet him beset her. 

Fyfe had seen her. With schoolgirls hanging on his 
arms and crowding him with attentions he managed to 
move in Miriam’s direction. A moment later they were 
shaking hands. 


272 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Ordinarily Mrs. Campbell did not enjoy these sud- 
den appearances. But large deals in real estate had a 
mollifying effect upon her manners. “Call in and see the 
girls/’ she said. 

“So you’re a real Westerner,” Miriam began, all un- 
witting. 

“I am indeed. Back to the original. By the way, that 
was an unfortunate business about young Stewart, wasn’t 
it?” 

Miriam looked absolutely and hopelessly mystified. 

“Hugh Stewart, from Nova Scotia,” Fyfe supple- 
mented to jog her memory. “Didn’t you hear about it? 
He’s out in Regina, you know, in our firm.” 

“Yes, I know,” Miriam faltered, crimsoning swiftly. 
“But what — was it? I never heard.” 

“Oh, you never heard?” Fyfe apparently had enough 
grace to give the facts reluctantly. “Why, it was rather 
a nasty affair. He — it — well, in plain words, there was 
a shortage of some hundreds of dollars in the money he 
handled.” 

“Hugh Stewart!” Pauline piped up, quite excited. 
“Well, isn’t that awful, Miriam! I met him at Cora’s, 
you know. A great, tall fellow from Nova Scotia, hand- 
some in that coarse way, you understand, Mother, black 
shiny curls and big eyes.” 

Mrs. Campbell nodded shrewdly. She knew the type. 

“What an abominable lie!” 

“Miriam! You will have to excuse yourself to your 
cousin for such language.” 

“No, indeed, Mother. Fyfe should apologise to me for 
speaking that way of my friend.” 

“Oh, I say, Aunt Laura, I understand. Stewart is a 
friend of Miriam’s. I might have remembered, and, ’pon 
my word I’m unlucky to be the one to bring the news. 
They handle big money out West. I suppose they trusted 


BAD NEWS ILL-BROUGHT 273 

him because of his uncle. It seems he had come back to 
the office half an hour before he was due, the day the 
money disappeared, and they found on him a promissory 
note he had to meet the next day.” 

Pauline laughed in nervous excitement. A sweet morsel 
this, to have one of those precious college men so involved ! 

“It was almost funny, too,” Fyfe continued. “But 
when they went searching him, poking into his clothes 
and boots and looking at his letters — well, he’s Highland 
Scotch, and his blood got hot and he let out at that de- 
tective, and landed him one, straight between the eyes.” 

Mrs. Campbell’s murmur was of horror. 

“I pity the detective that Hugh lays his hands on,” said 
Miriam calmly. It was, for her, the only redeeming inci- 
dent in the whole recital, and she had seized upon it to 
cover her utter mortification. 

“You seem to take delight in this fellow’s assault on 
an officer of the law!” 

“Fyfe takes delight in evil tales!” 

“Miriam, that is insulting to your cousin!” 

“Much Miriam cares!” murmured her sister. 

“Mr. Boulding!” cried a voice at his elbow. “Is this 
where you are? I want you to meet our new teacher of 
English. She tells me she knows some distinguished 
friend of yours.” 

With a brief smile and bow in Mrs. Campbell’s direc- 
tion, she bore Fyfe off toward the residence. “See you 
later, Aunt Laura!” he called back. 

“There!” said Pauline, as soon as they had gone. 
“There’s another friend you’ve queered with your sharp 
tongue, Miriam!” 

“Well, Pauline, if Fyfe had heard the remarks you 
have made about him all his life, I imagine there would 
be another friend queered.” 

“Probably Pauline has noticed an improvement. Of 


274 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

course he had his faults as a boy, but he is a likeable 
and popular young man,” Mrs. Campbell said, “and you 
were certainly very rude to him.” 

“He’s practically the same, a shade more bombastic, 
perhaps,” Miriam returned. “The improvement comes 
in the real estate, or law business, I suppose.” 

Mrs. Campbell took no notice of this. It was her 
fashion to elude all compromising rejoinders. She took 
another tack. “I was quite surprised to see how vehe- 
mently you spoke in behalf of that student. It is not 
necessary to constitute yourself the champion of every 
man who passes through your college.” 

“It would be quite an undertaking, Mother, certainly,” 
the girl answered whimsically. “But I know this Mr. 
Stewart, personally. His home is on the hill above Aunt 
Hannah’s.” 

Mrs. Campbell flushed and bit her lip, glancing hastily 
around. “That’s not a fact to be shouted from the 
housetops, Miriam. These country connections need not 
be dragged into Ottawa society. And even if you should 
happen to have known him down there, you were very 
unwise to offend your own cousin because of him.” 

“How was it unwise, Mother?” Miriam asked quietly. 

“You will find that it is,” she said briefly. “And I 
will tell you further, Miriam, that it does not profit 
you at all to fly into heroics over any young man who 
happens to have got into trouble, just because you knew 
him at college or in the country. He will drag your 
reputation down with his, be very sure of that. Why, 
what would your Aunt Victoria, on the very spot, think 
of your friendship with such a fellow!” 

It was on the tip of Miriam’s tongue to say, “Perhaps 
I would drag his reputation up with mine, Mother. Be- 
sides I don’t care a fig for Aunt Victoria’s opinion or 
Fyfe’s either.” But instead of giving voice to these re- 


BAD NEWS ILL-BROUGHT 275 

bellious assertions she found herself launching out into a 
little dissertation. 

“You know, Mother, I don’t feel that way about my 
reputation. I never think of it. If people follow their 
best impulses they will have nothing but goodwill from 
those they care about. And even if it did drag down 
my reputation I’d stand up for a friend through thick 1 
and thin.” 

High-flown and sermonic as this speech was, it gave 
some vent to the girl’s feelings and showed Mrs. Camp- 
bell the divergence, if not the antithesis, of their views. 
She heard in it an echo of ideas which her husband long 
ago had tried to impress upon her. Was Miriam to 
give articulate utterance to her father’s smothered ideals? 

But she only remarked, “Don’t pitch your voice so 
high, Miriam, or get excited. You’re not on the stage. 
No one is going to wrest your pals from you, I as- 
sure you. But I’ll tell you for your own good that the 
sooner you cut loose from a light-fingered fellow, such 
as that, the better for yourself, not to speak of your 
family, whose honour seems to concern you very little.” 

“What is the family’s honour anyway, Mother, that 
must be coddled whatever happens or however your 
friends may fare? I’ve heard that ever since I was so 
high. I’d be true to my friends even if they had made 
mistakes.” 

That Miriam should dare to overthrow the family gods, 
or to question their reality, was as astounding as it wa 9 
novel and her mother felt secretly taken aback. But 
it was part of Mrs. Campbell’s creed never to appear at 
a disadvantage and her reply was as cool and her smile a9 
reserved as though Miriam were still the excited school- 
girl. 

“ ‘Had made mistakes,’ you say. That is a very mild 
way of speaking about a common thief.” 


CHAPTER XXVI : LEAVE HER TO HEAVEN 


“Leave her to Heaven, 

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge. 

To prick and sting her.” 

— Hamlet, Act I, Sc. 5. 

Elizabeth’s fair hair touched Miriam’s as they bent 
over the magazine, reading slowly and breathlessly. They 
looked up at the same moment and smiled at each other 
in delight. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Miriam said. 

Elizabeth smiled anew. “It’s his first attempt for that 
magazine,” she said, with a little touch of pride. “I 
wanted him to give the verses a prettier title but he liked 
the Wordsworthian flavour of that, ‘Lines Written upon 
Seeing the River St. Lawrence.’ ” 

“They’re splendid. I like the title, too,” Miriam re- 
joined with enthusiasm. “Tom has ‘arrived,’ hasn’t he? 
Did his brother see this ?” 

“Why, he brought me the paper,” Elizabeth laughed. 
“Dan knows everything Tom does, almost before it is 
begun. He has no more idea of metre than Elmer or 
Claude, but that doesn’t matter. He pores over Tom’s 
verses with the greatest delight.” 

“I must go and see the Dan Rutherfords,” Miriam said, 
with keen interest. She never would forget her Summer 
as governess. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see Clara popping in this 
afternoon,” Elizabeth commented. “I told her you were 
coming up for a few days before going back to Halifax. 
If she could, she would make you a better offer than the 
276 


LEAVE HER TO HEAVEN 277 

Halifax Ladies’ College, and keep you here for the 
boys.” 

Miriam laughed out. But the next moment a shade 
passed over her face. She was thinking that for her the 
charm of Kingston had forever passed away. The lake 
in the distance shone blue in the afternoon sun. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, “how beautiful the day 
is or how the water sparkles, I cannot bear the sight 
of it.” 

Miriam’s glance travelled from her cousin’s slight fig- 
ure, stretched in the hammock, her fair hair showing 
fairer against the black dress, out across the green slopes 
to the water. No, the lake was no longer a friend. 

“Tom says I should not think of it that way,” Eliza- 
beth went on, “for Sedley loved the lake. He used to 
spend hours on it. He liked to take his books down 
to the shore and dream over them, watching the water 
and learning poetry. He should have been a poet him- 
self. He had the music in him and the noble thoughts. 
If his — his surroundings had been different, I think he 
would have been.” 

Miriam felt the old pain surge back into her heart. 
Was it really possible that she could be in Kingston talk- 
ing about Sedley and not even expecting to hear his deep, 
vibrant laugh, to see his eyes “light up from behind” 
with each quick thought that visited him? 

“Does it seem to you, Elizabeth,” she said, leaning for- 
ward, her eyes full of hot tears, “does it seem sometimes 
as though his death were needless and cruel?” 

Elizabeth waited a full moment before replying. There 
was that throb of pain in her own heart to be stilled first. 
She must be ready to speak when her faith was surest. 
Miriam was younger. 

“No, dear,” she said at length, and though sadness 
lodged in her eyes, her voice held a note of confidence. 


278 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I don’t know that we can say that any catastrophe is 
useless, or to no purpose. Only it is hard to see what 
that purpose it.” 

She rose, and pulled the baby-carriage farther into 
the sun. Little Caspar was having a long nap. Then she 
sat down again beside Miriam. 

“Do you think, Miriam, that if our dear one’s death 
had made us, you and I, determine to live a true and noble 
life, like Sedley’s own, that you could say it had been use- 
less? And, Miriam, this is what I believe. If it does 
not make us nobler our loss is doubled. For besides his 
dear self, we lose that grace which his very going might 
bring to us.” 

Miriam was crying quietly. The warm tears were 
running down her cheeks, fast and faster. She could never 
rise to Elizabeth’s lofty height. Elizabeth could fathom 
mysteries, could gather life’s strange lessons, could trace 
love’s faint beginnings in mankind; Elizabeth could see 
God working in all these circumstances and through 
men, because her heart was so pure. 

A little sigh and stir came from the depths of the 
carriage and then a hand was seen vigorously pushing 
back the covers. Baby thought he had better return to 
consciousness. 

“Oh, how lovely!” Miriam exclaimed, her sore heart 
finding balm at the vision of the big baby boy, lifted out, 
heavy and warm and wide-eyed, with a fillet of wee damp 
curls. She must have Caspar on her lap and feed him 
his bread and milk, and presently Tom came swinging 
down the street, waving his hat to them all. 

“Well, Rebecca,” he cried, “glad to see you!” 

“Well, Poet Laureate,” she returned, “glad to read 
you.” 

Then Tom spied the magazine, and his eyes kindled as 
he reached for it. But Elizabeth had to kiss him twice 


LEAVE HER TO HEAVEN 279 

first, once for coming 1 home and again for being so clever. 

It was just as they were rising from the table, that 
evening, that they heard the familiar little laugh of 
Mrs. Dan at the porch steps. A moment more and her 
effusive greetings were distributed. 

“I heard that my girl was here and I came along,” she 
explained, putting out a plump, white hand to draw 
Miriam to her. “So you’re going back to Nova Scotia? 
There must be some attraction down there.” 

Miriam thought she had got over that stupid habit of 
blushing. Surely her experience before those college girls 
in Halifax would have cured her. But now the vivid 
colour was creeping up and up until her cheeks went 
crimson. 

Elizabeth hurried to her rescue. “Miriam, indeed l” 1 
she said. “Why, Miriam must not think of such a thing 
until after Pauline is engaged and married and nicely 
settled down. And as far as we know that’s a good long 
time off yet.” 

“And you would keep some poor chap in unhappiness 
until all that was consummated,” Tom said, reprovingly. 
“Really, Elizabeth, for a happy wife and mother, you 
seem very heartless.” 

Little Mrs. Dan looked over at Miriam in sudden com- 
passion. “I was awfully sorry when I heard young 
Stewart had yielded to that strong temptation.” Her 
round eyes were owl-like in their concern. “But as I 
said to Dan, it might have been one of our lads. Give 
them the best of care, you don’t know how they’ll grow 
up. The young tykes ! Here’s Elmer joined the Scouts 
and has a knife so big and sharp it makes me shiver. 
I don’t know why they put instruments like that into boys’ 
hands. I yell ‘Look out for the girls’ heads !’ every time 
he opens it.” 

“The girls?” Miriam echoed, remembering only Vivian. 


280 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I didn’t know you had another, Mrs. Rutherford.” 

“Oh, yes,” the little woman nodded, “I got this one 
easy. She’s Nellie’s baby. Oh, you won’t know Nellie. 
She was my washer-woman’s daughter in Meadowville, 
and used to chore for me or table-wait.” She cleared 
her throat, nervously. Seeing Elizabeth’s simplicity of 
life since that time, learning her absence of pretence or 
affectation, Mrs. Dan had often felt provoked with her- 
self for all her concern over the bride’s visit. 

“Poor Nellie, she died with the next one, and the old 
mother had two others to look out for, so I just brought 
Pansy home. She’ll be good company for Vivian. Pansy 
isn’t her given name. She was Minnie Maude. She’s 
a good little thing; no nasty tricks except holding her 
breath till she turns black when you don’t give in to her.” 

“How horrible !” Elizabeth exclaimed. “How can you 
ever break her of that, Clara?” 

“Pinching,” said Clara succinctly. “Behind the ears !” 

They all laughed out at this, Mrs. Dan with the rest. 
“That’s right!” she cried. “You try it on Caspar. Did 
he get his stomach-teeth through, Elizabeth ?” she queried, 
with vast concern, and nothing would do but she must 
take a trip to the nursery to see him for herself. 

Miriam looked after her plump figure, musingly. “She 
doesn’t exactly blow a fanfare of trumpets, announcing 
her good deeds, does she?” she said to Tom as the door 
closed behind them. “Was that the first time you heard 
about adopting the little girl ?” 

“Yes,” Tom laughed. “I noticed an extra one on the 
verandah the other day, but I didn’t know she was a fix- 
ture. Clara makes no more of another baby than I 
would of a new necktie. It gives her far less concern and 
a good deal more pleasure.” 

“I like that kind all right,” Miriam said, stretching 
herself comfortably in the big chair. 


LEAVE HER TO HEAVEN 281 

Tom nodded. Then turning leisurely, “Well, how is 
Halifax, Rebecca?” 

Miriam, nothing loath, launched out into a recital of 
its charms, the young professor noticing, as she glowed 
over the description, how she had added to her own 
charms during her stay there. The salt air had played 
around her, the fog had clung to her, the old, steep hills 
had done their share, and clear eyes, fresh colour, and 
an erect carriage testified to their good work. 

Late that night, as Miriam sat on the edge of her bed 
braiding her brown hair, her cousin tapped on the door. 
“I couldn’t resist a little talk, Miriam. I was glad ‘Mrs. 
Dan,’ came in, for I knew she wanted to meet you again. 
She simply dotes on you.” She dropped down beside 
Miriam expectantly. 

“I should have been more affable then. But she 
always nettles me. It’s silly, though, to mind such trifles 
when she is capable of really big things.” 

“You heard they were moving West? To Regina? 
They’ll be seeing Hugh Stewart. She knows his aunt.” 

“Her old music- teacher, she told me. Well, well! 
Poor Hugh!” was Miriam’s comment. Then thinking 
her cousin might construe the pity in another way, she 
turned the subject to one equally unwelcome. 

“Miriam!” her cousin exclaimed, a note of bitter- 
ness in her voice, “is it possible that you haven’t heard? 
Cora is engaged and will probably be married at Christ- 
mas. The year will be up then.” She straightened reso- 
lutely, answering Miriam’s look of pain and disgust. “We 
have put her out of our thought altogether. We will 
let her go her own gait. I remember her only to feel 
proud of what my brother was and did while his life 
was linked with hers.” 

She paused a minute, but Miriam’s silence seemed no 
bar to further confidences. Encouraged, she continued, 


282 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I cannot help speaking about something else, dear. How 
badly I have felt about poor Hugh Stewart ! What pos- 
sessed him to do such a thing? I wouldn’t believe it at 
first, until I heard about the promissory note. It was here, 
you know, that he owed the money. Tom found out 
about it. He borrowed it going through college. A 
great many students have to. But surely he could have 
got some way to meet it. If Tom had only known ! How 
gladly we would have helped him! Can you throw any 
light on it, Miriam?” 

Miriam shook her head. This was a subject which 
she preferred not to discuss. “I met him in Halifax, you 
know,” she said slowly. ‘‘I had not seen him since that 
Christmas, last Christmas, and before that we had not 
spoken for months. That was his fault. But I for- 
gave Hugh everything. He was so wonderfully kind. 
We exchanged one or two letters last winter. Then his 
stopped. There are two of mine he hasn’t answered yet.” 

“He was such a splendid fellow,” Elizabeth commented, 
“that I cannot bear to think of him in disgrace.” 

And could Miriam? But neither could she bear to 
speak of it. She was fighting against a decision which 
all her friends had come to, and for which there seemed 
to be such conclusive evidence. Not even to Elizabeth 
could she say how deep her hurt was, nor how this oc- 
currence had revealed to her her own heart’s feeling. 


CHAPTER XXVII: EVIL MADE BETTER 


“O benefit of ill! Now I find true, 

That better is by evil still made better.” 

— Sonnet CXIX. 

Deceptive was the flood of sunlight, bathing the city's 
streets. The snow lay dry and flaky beneath its hot 
breath, the mercury had quietly slipped out of sight. 
Countless millions of diamond points scintillated in the 
still air. The atmosphere was a-quiver with icy particles, 
the dance of the sunbeams with the frost-fairies. 

Wide and quiet and winter-bound lay the city, dead- 
white below, domed with a matchless blue. Across this 
sky-line the white and red brick buildings set up their 
fine proportions, bulwarks against the sweep of Nature. 
The broad paved streets pointed the highways of civiliza- 
tion. But beyond this congregation, East, West, North 
and South, limitless, lonely, grand, stretched the white 
prairies. 

In the centre of the city and despite the majestic sway 
of the Frost King, life was eager and intense. The snow 
crumbled under the feet of men who held the keys of 
the country’s future. Pioneers from the centres of learn- 
ing and of commerce, where history was established, and 
destiny fixed, were here to have a hand in nation build- 
ing. Roaring in from the four quarters of the con- 
tinent, the great trains brought their quota of settlers, 
fain to share in the general prosperity, and the hotels 
were crowded with those of every kindred and tribe and 
tongue and nation. 

But the spirit was one of good cheer. A land, sun- 
283 


284 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

shine-steeped, puts gladness into the heart. Keen, dry 
air makes the step elastic; rich reward for careful toil 
lends confidence to a people. And the citizens of this 
Western metropolis moved with an air of buoyancy and 
aggression. This was a young land and they were young 
with it, a land of promise which it was theirs to share. 
Let older centres look to their laurels. 

It was a Saturday afternoon in late November and 
Regina was at its busiest. In the downtown regions, 
where traffic was thickest, the city presented a most in- 
teresting sight. Typically Western were the groups of 
young men hurrying past in the frosty air, Western those 
teams of shaggy horses, Western too those vacant lots in 
the centre of the city, held by ambitious real estate men. 
Western those cottages, nestling against fine brick build- 
ings, substantial frame houses on the outskirts hobnob- 
bing with a few genuine shacks. 

To Hugh Stewart, striding through Victoria Park, in 
the frosty afternoon sunlight, these sights had grown 
familiar, and his thoughts were too engrossing to allow 
the claim of outside interests. He walked briskly, as 
one who would rather be alone, with the sights and sounds 
of the city left far behind. 

He was glad of the vastness of the prairies, glad of the 
sense of infinity which they brought to him. Life wa9 
so cabined, so baffling, so circumscribed. It was good to 
feel that beyond it all there was endless freedom, which 
the prairies typified, and an overshadowing presence like 
the sky above the plains. 

It had been a bitter season for Hugh Stewart. It 
was bitter still, a crucifixion to his fine sense of justice 
and of rectitude. Through all his work, through all his 
attempts at relaxation and recreation, there went still this 
haunting suspicion. It crippled his best efforts at work, 
and despite his fixed endeavour set its insidious mark on 


EVIL MADE BETTER 285 

his features. The nervous tension had supplanted his 
frank expression with one of strain. In his eyes the care- 
free glance of youth was overshadowed. The indefinite- 
ness of the conjecture and the absence of a specific charge 
made it all the more difficult for Hugh to defend him- 
self. He passed in and out with the stamp of popular 
disgrace upon him, but with the inward, brave assurance 
that time would reveal and truth would vindicate, and 
that he must submit to the sharp discipline of patience. 

What made the trial doubly hard was his loneliness, 
which was emphasised all the more since his friendship 
with Miriam Campbell had been broken. Slowly there 
was dawning on Hugh’s soul the consciousness of his in- 
sufficiency, the inadequacy of his personal life, the need 
for some other to complement, to fill up that which was 
lacking. It was that primeval thing, the welling-up of 
affection, the call for some object to love. And its 
dawning had been slow because in Hugh’s nature no 
sudden changes could take place. His affections, no less 
than his mental gifts, needed time for development. His 
was a nature whose powers would be actualised years 
after his contemporaries had attained, and what was true 
of his mental gifts was true of his affections. His was 
not the ardent nature which finds easy vent for its pent-up 
stores. His reserve was Highland, but his fund of affec- 
tion was his own, and it needed not only the loneliness 
of the prairies, but the isolation of trial and suspense, 
to reveal to himself the need of his heart. 

And always before his mind in those moments when 
his solitariness pressed hardest, came the picture of a 
girl’s smooth, brown head, the quiet look of her eyes, 
the quick flush on her face. He saw her in Cape Breton’s 
rugged setting, her gingham frock and white shoes mov- 
ing brightly along the wooded roads or up through the 
fields of waving grain. He saw her, later, in college 


286 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

gown, walking, always quickly, through the halls, books 
bulging out from under her arms, ink-smudges on her 
fingers, an eager, earnest, engrossed expression in her 
eyes. He saw her, a graduate now, across the crowded 
church, her scarlet tartan luring. But his mind dwelt 
longest on the last picture. The afternoon sky, tender 
green foliage behind, and Miriam leaning back against 
the cushions, trailing her fingers in the rippling water, as 
the waves gurgled against the side of the boat. 

It was tempting to dwell upon these visions of by- 
gone days, but Hugh resolutely shut them away. They 
would only be visions to him and memories, and the girl 
with them. Their paths would diverge, from this time, 
more and more. While this cloud overshadowed his sky 
he could not allow himself such dreams. Would it ever 
lift? Hugh’s faith was strong, but at times he felt the 
hopelessness of it all. There was no one else on whom 
to lay the blame, no one else through whose hands the 
money had passed. He had talked the matter over with 
young Boulding, his companion in the law office, time 
and again. They, could see no light at all. Hugh had 1 
been kept at the office. But that was as nothing com- 
pared with the shadow of suspicion under which the 
young man daily walked, or with the unrest in his own 
mind. 

Fyfe had urged him to forget it all. “It’s one of 
those inexplicable things that are always bobbing up,” he 
said. “Every one else is living it down. Surely you 
ought to.” And for Miriam’s cousin’s sake, he had 
tried. Of course she would have heard all the particulars. 
That was why he could not answer her letters. His sen- 
sitive, proud nature quivered with the shame of the ac- 
cusation, the despair of vindication. His best powers 
had been bent on discovering the culprit. He had con- 
ceived a daring solution which he confided to the de- 


EVIL MADE BETTER 287 

tectives, but apparently in vain. He felt at times like dis- 
appearing altogether from the scene. But this would be 
a cowardly subscribing to the suspicions. For the sake 
of his uncle and the many friends in the city who wanted 
to believe only good of him, Hugh kept his grip of 
things, and mingled as best he could in all the stirring 
life about him. 

To-night he was to go to his uncle’s for dinner. Had 
there been any valid excuse under the heavens for de- 
clining the invitation, Hugh would have seized on it. 
For he knew he was to meet there Miriam’s mother, Mrs. 
Roderick Campbell of Ottawa, who was visiting her sis- 
ter, Mrs. Boulding. Hugh’s anticipations as he strode 
along the snowy streets were not of the pleasantest. 

He pulled out his watch. Starting at the lateness 
of the hour, he swung on his heel, and made off down a 
side street. He would just have time to change for 
dinner. What a glorious evening it was ! After all, one 
must not lose heart. Truth was bound to be revealed. 
Youth and health and a free conscience were his, mean- 
time. 

And this conviction carried him on, swift-striding up 
the long, snowy street on which the early Winter night 
had already fallen. The moon was high, and made a 
diamond point of every snowflake. The creak of the 
snow and the keenness of the air which cut against his 
throat would have testified to the coldness of the night 
even apart from tingling finger-tips. But as though to 
set the sign and seal of Winter's thralldom over all, there, 
as he reached the long avenue, the curtain of Northern 
lights unrolled and furled, furled and unrolled, in splen- 
did convolutions, across the deep blue sky. It swamped 
from household windows, swinging from street-posts 
the stars and shamed the little lights of men, peeping 
above and twinkling from out the myriad eyes of the 


288 


MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

Parliament building far across the frozen lake. Hugh 
stood a moment, riveting each detail of the scene, and 
then, wheeling about, walked up the steps of Judge 
Stewart’s imposing home. 

A far cry, this, from Tom Angus Stewart’s white farm 
house on the hill; from the hooked mats to the Persian 
rugs; from the maragan (puddings) to the turkey even 
now scenting the gale as the door is flung wide. But the 
greetings, oh, they have the old-time flavour! If Robbie 
Burns asked nothing better of Heaven than a Highland 
welcome at the gate, these Scottish folk had a fashion 
of bringing Heaven very near, when one of their own 
clan was seen without the door. 

“Come in! Come in, Hugh, my boy!” How the 
warmth of the greeting coursed like wine through the 
young man’s veins, how it toned up his sore heart and 
nerved him anew ! “It’s a frosty night,” the Judge con- 
tinued, his keen, dark eyes the prototype of his nephew’s, 
as Hugh slipped out of his topcoat. “The mercury 
is playing around 35 ° or 40° below, by our thermometer.” 

“Yes, it’s sharp. I was afraid I was late,” the younger 
Hugh rejoined, as his uncle led the way to the drawing- 
room. “I was over at the ‘Y’ for some exercise.” 

“That’s right. Doesn’t do to get stiff. My old remedy 
for that was the buck-saw.” 

Hugh gave a quick laugh which was checked the next 
instant. Just inside the door was standing Miriam’s 
mother. 

The amazement which had dawned in Mrs. Roderick 
Campbell’s eyes at the mention of the buck-saw from no 
less a personage than Judge Stewart, narrowed into 
animosity, as, for the first time, they encountered this 
young man whose cause her Miriam had championed. 

“My nephew, Hugh Stewart, Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. 


EVIL MADE BETTER 289 

Boulding. Perhaps you have met Fyfe’s mother? You 
know Fyfe, here, in any case.” 

This question saved Mrs. Campbell the necessity of 
words. And she could make her survey of the crisp, 
curly head, straight features and tall well-knit figure, 
while her sister put her pointed questions. 

“You are still with the law firm?” Mrs. Boulding was 
asking, with intentional surprise. 

“Yes. Why not?” Hugh returned, swiftly. 

“Oh, certainly if they — if you enjoy it.” The steady 
glance from the young man’s dark eyes was disconcerting. 
“I thought from what Fyfe said that you would be 
leaving.” 

“What did he say?” Hugh demanded, his glance fol- 
lowing that young man to the end of the room. 

“Really, I cannot remember the exact words. Some- 
thing to the effect that you did not find the atmosphere 
of the office very — shall I say congenial or comfortable.” 

“He’s quite right in that.” 

Mrs. Boulding looked at him sharply. 

“But, should I go, that would not make matters right.” 

Before she had time to sort out her reply their hostess 
appeared. “Why, my dear boy, I was afraid that you 
were going to disappoint us.” His aunt’s musical voice 
greeted him at the dining-room. But that face with the 
round, wise eyes just beyond her? Surely he did not need 
the introduction to Mrs. D. Webster Rutherford? “I 
am going to put you beside Mrs. Rutherford, Hughie,” his 
aunt continued. “She is one of my old pupils, so be 
your very nicest to her.” 

A beaming smile met his embarrassed one. The eyes 
turned upon him were owl-like in their regard. The 
innocent question, “How are you keeping, Mr. Stewart?” 
might read, interlinear , “Are you feeling badly about 
this missing money which every one thinks you have 


290 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

stolen?” But Hugh was not one to read between the 
lines and answered only the solicitude of her query. 

Then, “You moved West?” he said in his turn. All 
Ontario seemed to be coming out here, getting the news 
and sending it East. “We’ll have to get the Tom Ruth- 
erfords out next.” 

“I guess there are a good many people you’d like to 
be coaxing,” she hinted. Then, as if on a happy coinci- 
dence, and leaning across the table, “Why, you’re Miriam 
Campbell’s mother, aren’t you? Miriam Campbell of 
Queen’s?” She pressed the question, ignoring the in- 
cident of the Sunday supper. “You’re so fleshy I’d 
hardly know you.” 

Mrs. Campbell waited a moment. She needed time to 
regain her poise. Fleshy! Finally, “I have a daughter, 
Miriam,” she conceded. 

“Of Queen’s?” Mrs. D. Webster was flushed with 
the set-back, but still determined. 

“Of Ottawa. Our home is there.” 

“But Miriam went through Queen’s,”’ was the per- 
sistent reply. 

“Do you mean Queen’s University? Yes, she is a 
graduate.” Mrs. Campbell had no intention of living on 
the reputation of her daughter’s college course, nor wax- 
ing enthusiastic over any stray acquaintances that Miriam 
in her misguided ardour had picked up; least of all this 
insignificant connection of “poor Elizabeth’s” whom she 
remembered perfectly. 

But the other, nothing daunted, finished her explana- 
tion : “Hugh Stewart and I were just speaking of Miriam. 
She taught our boys, you know. Sort of governess-tutor. 
Great letter-writer, too.” 

Mrs. Campbell’s face hardened. The episode of the 
garden party the preceding Summer, the disclosures, 
Miriam’s heat, her own warnings, flocked back to her. 


EVIL MADE BETTER 291 

She moistened and adjusted her lips in that small, quiet 
way that her intimates recognised. 

“Yes, I have heard Mr. Stewart’s name mentioned 
before this,” she said evenly. “Friends of ours from the 
West were speaking about him.” Nor did she even glance 
in Fyfe’s direction as she spoke. 

Hugh’s cheeks showed a dull, red glow. He knew that 
she was slashing at him, but he was defenceless before 
this guest in his uncle’s home. 

“Oh, I say, Aunt Laura, don’t trot out old ghosts ! Out 
here we live in the future.” Fyfe, busy over his plate, 
shot quick glances from his Aunt to Hugh. 

“Very well, then, we will live in the future,” Mrs. 
Campbell rejoined, with a dangerous smile. “These col- 
lege acquaintances need not be projected into one’s social 
life, I suppose.” She turned to address some remark to 
Judge Stewart as if having done with Hugh and Mrs. 
Dan. 

“The social life of some people might be redeemed 
by a touch of the academic,” Hugh had it on the tip of his 
tongue to say, but happily he took so long pondering the 
speech that he never delivered it. 

Seeing hints of distress on his aunt’s face and remem- 
bering her injunction to be nice,” he turned resolutely 
to his companion. 

“How are the boys?” he asked, with happy inspiration, 
recalling Miriam’s tales. “Do they like the prairies?” 

Mrs. Dan laughed delightedly at the broaching of her 
favourite topic. “They’re making the best of it. It wor- 
ried them at first that they could never sit on the ground 
and let their legs hang down, but they coast down cellar 
now and enjoy it all right. Oh, of course I mean dug 
cellars snowed over.” 

“Don’t you make sport of our prairies, Mrs. Ruther- 
ford,” Judge Stewart called to her from the end of the 


292 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

table. “Not to speak of their beauty, they turn in big 
money.” 

“Well, we’re here to take our share of it,” was her 
saucy retort. 

“That’s all right. The trouble is that some people 
take more than their share,” her host returned, referring 
to wheat speculation. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Mrs. Boulding’s even tones 
dominated the silence. 

“And they get away with it, too,” Fyfe laughed lightly, 
applying himself to his dinner. 

“But justice always finds them,” Mrs. Campbell de- 
clared, looking swiftly at Hugh Stewart. 

“That’s sure !” said Hugh. 

A ring at the bell, a rustle through the hall, quick words 
exchanged, hurrying footsteps, and then — the message 
seemed to hiss its sibilant way through Hugh’s ears like 
a trumpet call — “Mr. Fyfe Boulding is wanted !” 

“Can’t they wait a few minutes? We have nearly fin- 
ished dinner.” 

“No, they say not.” 

“Oh, it’s probably the Major,” Fyfe exclaimed, spring- 
ing up. “You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Stewart? He won’t 
keep me long.” 

Long? Longer, perhaps, than you may care to wait! 

There were low, hurried tones in the hall, the sound of 
expostulation and persistence in the voices. It was not 
the officer Fyfe had expected. This was an officer of the 
law. 

“Will you come to the hall, Judge?” 

“What can it mean?” 

“Some little scrape Fyfe has got into, perhaps. What 
is it, Judge?” 

“Mrs. Boulding, I am sorry to be the bearer of evil 
tidings, and in my own home.” 


EVIL MADE BETTER 


293 

“What? Audacious! My son? The blackguards !” 

“Hush, Mrs. Boulding, the officer is still there. They 
have surely made a mistake. My husband will investi- 
gate. They must be wrong !” 

“I’m sorry that he’s your son, Mrs. Boulding, and your 
nephew, Mrs. Campbell, but I’m glad the thief is caught, 
whatever !” 

“The thief !” She turned on Hugh. “How dare you 
call him so ? Nothing has been proved. They are trying 
to incriminate the innocent! What is that? They are 
not taking him away ! Fyfe!” 

“I am sorry it has had to come to this, Victoria.” 

“Mrs. Boulding, Mrs. Campbell, I feel deeply for you 
both, and regret exceedingly that this should have hap- 
pened at my house. But God knows what this boy has 
endured these last months, and whoever has allowed him 
to suffer unjustly deserves the full penalty of the law.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII: ENSKIED AND SAINTED 

“I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted.” 

— Measure for Measure, Act I, Sc. 5- 

Fyfe Boulding’s case was quickly disposed of. The 
detectives had done their work well. It was evident that 
Fyfe had traded on his relationship to Miriam to disarm 
suspicion from Hugh’s side, and had taken advantage 
of his propinquity to Hugh’s desk to filch the large en- 
velope from his pile of mail. His high living furnished 
an adequate explanation for his need of funds and his 
father did not feel disposed to settle disguised gambling 
debts. Fyfe’s short cut to payment led him by way of the 
penitentiary. 

Hugh told himself that he should be sorry. He did 
lament the foolishness, the utter stupidity of the fellow in 
thinking to “get away” with such a performance. Wasn’t 
a rogue caught, sooner or later ? It was playing a losing 
game to play with fire. He had pretty well seen this whole 
affair in his mind, worked out to a finish. He must have 
had a bit of the detective about him. But Fyfe was so 
foolish, so shortsighted. His whole connection was, too, 
with one little exception. 

It made him angry, too, as it would any honourable 
man, to think that Fyfe had let him bear the blame and 
wear the stigma all these wretched months. But oh, what 
a load was taken from his shoulders ! They were begin- 
ning to sag, he could square them again. His head had 
been drooping, he could lift it now, hold it high. His eyes 
had been lowered, now he could look the world in the 
face. Never from sense of guilt, never from shame or 
dishonour had he been so downcast, but that others could 
294 


ENSKIED AND SAINTED 295 

credit him, Hugh Stewart, with such a crime, that others 
could believe it possible that he was otherwise than 
straightforward, honest, true, the very thought of this 
had bowed him down, had weighed upon him. 

And all through the long Winter, that Winter of storms 
and cold and rigour such as he had never experienced, 
that long, busy, happy, snow-bound Winter, he would 
wonder about Miriam, far down by the sounding sea, in 
that old grey city facing the Atlantic. Did she know? 
Did she know everything? Had she been glad it was 
Fyfe, even though her own cousin, instead of himself, 
Hugh? 

And presently the Winter was passed. And Spring, 
the dancing psaltress, came tripping across the prairies, 
her garments perfumed with the sweet smell of 
the good brown earth, her arms full of pale purple 
anemones, her eyes deep wells of azure. She sent a leaping 
life into the ground, she shot thrills of rapture into the 
bird-notes, and stirred strange pulses in the lives of the 
young. There was a new birth in every sunrise, a passion 
in the noonday, a trembling of love in the tender colours 
of the sunset. The desire for kinship, the outgiving 
instincts were rife. It was the time of expression, self- 
communication, union. 

Out alone on the wide stretch of the prairies, under 
the April sky, with the stillness of evening about him, the 
limitless majesty of the heavens unrolled above his head, 
the myriad buds looking up with their sweet flower faces 
out of the rough, prairie sod, “where the quiet-coloured 
end of the evening smiles, miles and miles,” Hugh yielded 
his heart with its great store of pent-up affection. All 
the torrent of his strong nature burst out. He loved, he 
loved, he loved infinitely. Whatever happened, whatever 
she might make of it, he loved her. Exultantly, throb- 
bingly, his heart proclaimed the wonderful fact, ever old, 


296 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

ever strangely, beautifully new. He had thought that the 
loneliness had been responsible, he had been inclined to 
explain this transformation by his sudden, joyous release 
from the black weight of suspicion. But now at last, he 
knew the reason, he understood the mystery. The prairies 
had done it, the sunset had done it, the whole wide earth 
and sky was in the secret. Yet it was his, and his to tell 
to her alone. Sometime, somewhere, his to tell. 


CHAPTER XXIX : THEREFORE TO BE WOO’D 


“She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d; 

She is a woman, therefore to be won.” 

— King Henry VI, Part I, Act V, Sc. 3. 

“Be careful now, Ended ! (my dear). See that you’ll 
not crush it! Wait you, mo graidheag (my darling), till 
I will be putting in some more tissue paper. There now, 
that’s the way. It will not do to be spoiling it till it gets 
to the pic-a-nic.” 

“Your cake will take the prize, Aunt Hannah. Yes 
it will, you’ll see. I don’t believe there’ll be as good a one 
on all the tables.” 

“Oh, indeed, there’ll be some fine cakes there, Miriam. 
Not but what mine is all right, with the good butter and 
eggs and cream. I’ll not be putting frosting to fill up the 
holds like Sarah Lauchy MacDonald. But that was the 
queer cake altogether. John bought it last year at the 
auction. They were after having too many cakes and 
they sold them to be making some money. Well, poor 
Sarah had hers all fixed up fine with the decorations and it 
looked great. But when we would be cutting it, it was 
that full of sugar, soaked in, that you couldn’t tell but 
what it was made of frosting. Well, the poor thing! But 
what was she sending a cake at all if she could not make 
it right, the fool! And all trimmed up with leaves and 
little candies!” 

Miriam laughed out at the description. She would 
have laughed at anything, that perfect summer morning. 
But the holidaying spirit was infectious and she skipped 
instead of walking, dancing along between the house and 
barn as though her heels were winged. 

297 


298 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

“I feel like my namesake/’ she told her Uncle John, 
coming up beside him as he was oiling the buggy for the 
drive to the picnic-grounds. “I could dance before the 
Lord. Mornings like this are meant for skipping and 
dancing.” 

John Campbell set the oil can down on the grass and 
pushed back the wheel. “You’ll have dancing enough 
before sunset. Whether it will be before the Lord, I’m 
after doubting. Little Farquhar has his fiddle ready. He 
just went up the road a while ago, and Alan Stewart will 
be playing the pipes.” 

As he spoke the wail of that plaintive instrument 
came groaning and shrieking over the hill. Miriam dis- 
tinguished the notes of the “Cock O’ the North,” by fol- 
lowing the main theme and steadily ignoring the screams 
and grunts that were interjected. She saw the waving 
tartan ribbons streaming out from behind that many- 
legged object in Alan’s arms, as his buggy appeared on 
the crest of the hill. 

It was all aboard for the Campbell family now, and 
Miriam, perched perilously on one knee of her uncle’s and 
one of her aunt’s, drove the mare down to the gate and 
fell in with the line of carriages. 

Her uncle glanced around curiously. “There’s Tom 
Angus Stewart with the light carriage,” he said. “He’ll 
be going to Whycocomagh. He’s got the collar with him 
to be mended. Stop up, Miriam endal (dear), till I ask 
him if he’ll not be staying for the pic-a-nic.” 

“ Whoa-a !” Miriam commanded. 

“Fine day !” said her uncle, leaning over the back of the 
seat. 

“Oh, well, yes, pretty fine,” Tom Angus Stewart 
agreed. 

“You’ll not be going far?” 

“I’ve got to go to Orangedale,” the other man re- 


THEREFORE TO BE WOO’D 299 

turned. “Hughie’ll be coming from the West to-day,” he 
added casually. 

Miriam’s hands, holding the lines, gave such a sud- 
den jerk that the mare started briskly down the hill. Her 
aunt expostulated. “ You’re in an awful hurry, then, 
Miriam. Why could you not wait a minute till I would 
be asking after Mary Dolena? The poor thing is home 
from Boston with her baby. Her mother will be having 
her hands full with all the strangers.” 

They were one of a long line of carriages which wound 
down from the hill to the sandy drive by the cove, over 
the bridge, and up the wooded slopes. From far off in 
the distance came the sound of the piob mhor (bagpipes), 
and as they neared the picnic grounds the twang of little 
Farquhar’s fiddle sounded more and more distinct. The 
sweet smell of the summer morning was gently wafted 
towards them, and the dimpled waves of the lake laughed 
a welcome as they passed. 

Here were the picnic-grounds. The horses were un- 
hitched and grazing in a neighbouring field. A crowd of 
youths and men were ambling about the gate, saluting 
each new carriageful with jocular remarks. Inside, the 
women were depositing huge baskets of provisions beside 
the long tables. Two dancing-platforms, roofed with 
boughs of spruce, were set temptingly at one side. 

Miriam sprang down and helped her aunt out with the 
viands. She was shyly accosted by some of the young 
people who felt embarrassed in the presence of a college 
girl and teacher in Halifax. But the festive spirit of the 
morning soon dispelled any thought of formality and 
Miriam was presently the centre of a laughing group, en- 
tertaining them with tales of “Nickie” and the Minerva 
fracas. 

She was just at the climax of her recital and a laugh 
was running around the circle, when into the middle of 


3 oo MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

the crowd came a light carriage, with Tom Angus Stewart 
and another, younger man. They drew up sharply right 
beside Miriam. Over the wheel Hugh Stewart sprang, 
dropping lightly to the ground. 

Something leaped to her throat as she saw him. Would 
they notice her colour? He looked so big and brown, and 
so alive. His hand when he shook hers was strong and 
warm. 

“How are you?” he said, and Miriam told him that she 
was very well, indeed. A whisper ran around the circle 
to the effect that this was Tom Angus Stewart’s Hughie 
from the Nor’ West, and every one regarded him with 
interest and pride. Hugh had driven over from Orange- 
dale with “the mail,” on purpose to be in time for the 
picnic, and he went into it with such heart and soul that 
even the old women, the most captious of critics, for- 
got themselves utterly in compliment. “Well, but, Eudal 
(Dearie), the broad shoulders of him, and the purty, 
purty face of him !” 

Late in the afternoon Miriam found a cool spot under a 
tree from which she could watch the games. Her aunt 
and some of the older women were around her, and their 
Gaelic interjections and bursts of astonishment began to 
grow wearisome to her untutored ears. How foreign her 
Aunt Hannah seemed at times like these! How lonely 
that strange speech could make one feel! What a long 
picnic it had been ! And there they were, all those young 
people, stepping it out bravely to the screech of the bag- 
pipes under the roof of spruce. 

“And will you not be dancing, at all, at all?” said a 
voice at her elbow. Miriam started at the sound. It was 
Alan, Hughie’s older brother, a broad smile on his tanned 
face. 

Something dauntless charged through the girl’s pulses. 
She would not sit there moping. Up she sprang and off 


THEREFORE TO BE WOO’D 301 

she stepped with Alan, all gaiety and life. Her aunt, 
looking after her, whispered in doubtful compliment, “Oh, 
well, poor thing, she will be looking like her father, dear 
Roderick, and he was the poor, thin stick when he will 
be young.” To which disparaging description of Miriam’s 
figure another crony of Hannah Campbell’s remarked by 
way of consolation, “Oh, wait you, Eudal (Dearie), 
she will be after getting fat and red with the good cream.” 
Beauty being measured by rounded, rosy cheeks, Miriam’s 
slight figure and rather pale face were objects of commis- 
eration. 

Alan, however, disregarded these deficiencies. Miriam 
and he made the round of the picnic field and brought up 
finally by the lemonade booth. To Alan’s embarrass- 
ment there was Hughie, no less, with a group of girls, in- 
dulging in a long refreshing drink. He had just succeeded 
in putting Lauchy MacDonald’s two sons to utter rout on 
the field of sport, and the caber, on the ground beside him, 
was resting from its labours. 

After that, Alan never knew exactly how it happened, 
but he lost Miriam. He had picked up the caber to test 
its weight, and the first thing he saw they were moving 
together down towards the gate, and passing out into the 
road. And then, behold, Hughie was helping her into 
the buggy, and away they drove, down the long road. 

“I couldn’t get to talk to you, there, with all the 
crowd.” He stretched his arm across and tucked the 
duster over her knees. “Are you comfortable?” he said 
in his quick, full voice. It sounded exactly as though he 
had said, “Are you comfortable, Dear?” But surely he 
would never dare ! 

“Just perfectly!” she told him, but she kept gazing 
straight out at the shining vista. 

“Won’t you let me get a good look at you?” he sug- 
gested, and for a fluttering second she showed him her 


302 MIRIAM OF QUEEN'S 

clear eyes. Were they tell-tales? She couldn't trust 

them. Down came the lids and away she turned. Then 
— what was the murmur? He bent his head nearer to 
catch it. “I never believed any evil tales about you, 
Hugh." 

“Didn’t you, dear?" He had said it this time. But 

then, it was almost a Gaelic idiom., a Gaelic weakness any- 
way, this, — well, this affectionate way of speaking. She 
need not think anything of it. — “Well I thank you, then, 
from the bottom of my heart," he concluded simply. “If 
I had known that, it would have helped me to endure it all 
with better courage." 

Another half-mile was covered in silence. What did 
they need of words? Was there not the language of the 
lake, the rippling lake, beside them all the way, the tone of 
the Summer breezes through the green leaves, bird notes, 
buoyant and brief, whispering sigh of the trees? 

“I’m afraid I was not as generous as you," he con- 
fessed, the words coming with some difficulty. 

Her startled glance embarrassed him. How? it ques- 
tioned. How indeed ? He must go through with it now. 
But what to tell her? 

“I was believing some stories they were telling about 
you.’’ He had almost added “whatever," as he always 
did when very much moved. 

“Some stories ?” said Miriam. “About me?” If she 
had been accused of murder she could not have been more 
thunderstruck. 

Then he spread before her the whole baseless fabric of 
Cora’s gossip, with his blundering acceptance and the 
miserable break in their friendship. Miriam herself sup- 
plied the colouring. Well she knew Cora’s wiles ! Given 
a fit subject what could she not weave with her un- 
scrupulous skill ? And he had believed it all. Then that 
explained. Oh, yes, she saw the whole thing now. And 


THEREFORE TO BE WOO’D 303 

to Hugh’s amazement and relief, she laughed, a little 
wavering, uncertain laugh, at the picture of a Miriam who 
was bold, and would flirt and deceive — a veritable Pauline 
version of a Miriam. 

“It’s all right,” she told him. “Vm not surprised at 
your believing those stories. She does do startling things, 
that Isabel Margaret Miriam Campbell. Do you know, 
I heard that she went out buggy-riding with a strange 
young man!” 

Scotchmen are not always so slow as they are pictured. 
Hugh could drive the most spirited horse with one hand 
just as easily as with two. He could also carry out a joke 
as well as the next one, once launched on it. How slim 
and dainty she was beside him ! How absolutely deserted 
was the road ! Tremors assailed him, delightful heats and 
shivers. But his voice, when he spoke, though low was as 
cool and even as the distant surface of the lake. “And I 
heard, moreover, that he — had — his — arm — around — 
her!” 

Then he jumped as if shot. “Chursty” was watching it 
all from the side of the road. 


CHAPTER XXX: THE VOICE OF HARMONY 


“And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
Makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.” 

— Love's Labour’s Lost, Act IV, Sc. 3. 

That night, as Miriam sat combing her hair in the 
quiet front bedroom, the lamp making strange shadows 
on the white walls and ceiling, her thoughts went back to 
that afternoon’s drive by the wave-lapped shore. Letting 
the comb fall from her hand, she bent forward, in the 
strange delight of this new indulgence. Was it coming 
to her, this throbbing joy, this high sweet pain? Was 
she to know at last what she had always dreamed of 
knowing some kind day ? Was this what she had felt that 
afternoon, sitting so dose to him, they alone, driving 
right into the heart of that golden light? She trembled 
with a sudden awe, and drew her arms together in a long, 
shuddering sigh of content. It was coming. Her heart 
rushed to meet lit. 

Blowing out the lamp, she crept to the window and sat 
there in the starlight White and still and shadowy lay 
the homes beyond, as though the night invested them with 
mystery. Softly, oh, so softly, the little waves met the 
shore and murmured in retreating. Were they whisper- 
ing tender messages in the darkness? Sweet came the 
breeze against her face. Was it touching his, at the 
housie on the hill? 

Up the long field, yellow in the fresh morning sun- 
shine, moved the old mowing-machine, felling the hay. 
High on the seat, his head bare, his lithe body swaying 
with the stride of the horses, sat Hugh, revelling in all 
the sweet sights and sounds of the country. Never had 
his home seemed so attractive. Never had a field of tim- 


304 


THE VOICE OF HARMONY 305 

othy and clover looked so inviting*. Never had there been 
such plenitude of loveliness. He had cast off all respon- 
sibility for the time being, and work in the open was a 
real holiday. The thought of the Far West gave an 
added zest to his pleasure. Yet in that very thought was 
there a tinge of gravity. For, although the burden of its 
big problems, with which eventually he must grapple, 
did not as yet lie on his young heart, he felt the serious- 
ness of the life to be lived by all worthy citizens of that 
great new country whose concern it would be to intelli- 
gently cope with the incoming multitudes, to merge 
diverse elements and fuse conflicting ideals into a virile 
and progressive national life, to frame such laws and 
maintain such social and political standards as would 
make the dominant moral tone high and fundamental. 

Up the long path from the barn came an old woman in 
calico gown, her bare feet hidden by the hay, a large 
bandanna handkerchief tied over her head. Hugh, sit- 
ting in the shade of the mountain ash, at the side of the 
field, while Alan took his turn at mowing, spied her a 
good distance off. She came to a stop beside him and sat 
down heavily on a large stone, talking all the time, half to 
herself and half to the tree and the fields. 

“Well, Chursty,” he began, “and how are you?” 

Oh, she was keeping very well, then, indeed, darling, 
she told him, and it was the clever boy he was, himself, 
to be after growing so big and fine-looking, and the smart 
lawyer up in the Nor’ West and to be giving Alan a 
hand with the hay. And she had seen him after the 
pic-a-nic, then, driving with that thin girl, John Camp- 
bell^ niece. And did Hughie know where the girl would 
be this morning? 

Hugh felt a dull flush rise in his cheeks under the 
scrutiny of those sharp, old eyes. No, he did not know. 
Was it Miriam Campbell? 


3 o6 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

O si, Eudal (Oh yes, Dear), it was Miriam Campbell 
she was meaning. A smart girl, Miriam, who had put out 
the awful fire on her once when she would be having the 
pipe in her pocket with all the good tobacco that the 
Judge had brought her. 

Hugh moved uneasily. This was a plain hint. Well, 
where was Miriam then, he asked, with some curiosity. 

Chur sty lan Bhain (Christy, daughter of John the 
Fair), beckoned him mysteriously to follow her. She led 
him by a side path back of the barn to a spot overlooking 
Trout Brook, and John Campbell’s farm. 

There was the long road winding in by the bridge, with 
Lauchy MacDonald’s little red store just before it. In- 
land the brook stretched through evergreen thickets and 
clumps of alder bushes, shading the deep still pools. 
On either side of the pebbly stream, which widened at 
places into little ponds, or narrowed into tortuous rivulets, 
stretched great meadows of low-lying, marshy ground, 
attractive but treacherous. 

Chursty pointed with one brown, trembling finger to 
where, away down on the right, a figure in white was 
carefully fording the narrow stream. 

Hugh uttered a sharp interjection and, shouting to 
Alan to watch the horses, started off at a quick pace. It 
was Miriam, without doubt, wading across Trout Brook, 
quite unaware of her danger. 

Down the road he ran, his breath coming quickly, 
partly from apprehension, and partly at the prospect of 
meeting her and bringing her to safety. 

But all unconscious of her approaching fate, Miriam 
with necklace of slippers and stockings, was gingerly 
stepping from stone to stone, carefully holding her skirts 
from the water, and trying to keep her balance on those 
slippery boulders. Up here the brook was divided and 
the water tumbled down like a small cataract, icy-cold. 


THE VOICE OF HARMONY 307 

If she should slip now, she would get a nasty wetting 
and she was off so far from every one. A faint hullo 
came sounding over from the direction of the bridge. 
But she could see no one. She picked her way on, sway- 
ing and steadying herself, until, quite exhausted, she 
dropped on the muddy bank. 

The sun was hot here. It would be better to go and 
sit under one of those big bushes. Dragging on stockings 
and slippers she stepped out and into the tall grass. What 
mud! Her thin slippers stuck in it. On she struggled, 
dragging one foot after another, each weighted heavily, 
the water oozing out of her slippers as she stepped. It 
was getting worse and worse. She could never reach the 
bridge this way. 

A sudden whirr-r and flap, flap of great wings beside 
her, startled the girl almost to terror, as a large, grey 
crane, roused from its native seclusion, winged its way 
up from the marshy hollow, its long legs drooping behind, 
its feathery pinions beating the air. Frightened at the 
sudden apparition, she took a hasty plunge forward, and 
before she thought what she was doing she slipped and 
slid deep into the mire of a great bog. 

Her cry of distress was echoed by a shout from some 
one, in a boat, gliding between the alder bushes on the 
bank. And then her name was spoken by a voice that 
sent the blood leaping and thumping to her cheeks. 

“Where are you, Miriam ?” he called. 

“Oh, Hugh, come ! I need you !” For, with each effort 
to gain a foothold, she found herself sliding farther into 
trouble. 

It took him but a moment to push the boat up to the 
shore, and run to her assistance. She saw him coming, 
slipping and jumping over that miry ground and then — 

His arms closed around her and she felt herself dragged 
up and out and actually carried to the bank. Oh, how 


3 o8 MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

humiliating to have such muddy feet at such a moment ! 
"‘I want to get my slippers off/’ she gasped. “Please put 
me down! Oh, wasn’t that an awful bird with the long 
legs ?” 

The young man gave one significant glance at her own 
dangling extremities. “Are you the professor of Eng- 
lish Literature ?” he asked, wickedly. And then, choking 
with love and laughter, he gathered her tight in his arms 
and kissed her flaming cheeks and chin and lips. 

Miriam gasped at the sudden onset and struggled to 
freedom. And none too soon. The crackling of under- 
brush gave warning. Out of the shelter of the alders, 
on the opposite side of the stream, appeared the substan- 
tial figure of Lauchy MacDonald, ready to render first 
aid to the wounded. If ever he was avenged for his 
son’s defeat with the caber, at the hands of Hugh, it was 
now! 

Aunt Hannah was properly scandalised at her niece’s 
unsightly appearance when she finally presented herself 
at the house. And all the time she helped her change into 
fresh attire, she was expostulating and rebuking and ex- 
claiming at the danger so narrowly averted. But, how- 
ever much Miriam tried to realise the extent of her fool- 
hardiness, back there would come, on a soft current of 
joy, the remembrance of that one moment, just before 
Lauchy, blind, blundering Lauchy, had put in an appear- 
ance and spoiled things so completely. 

She thought she would never be able to face Hugh 
Stewart again, and yet she thought the time would drag 
until she did. She stood in her fresh, white frock, in 
front of her little mirror, just before supper, and looked 
at her reflection with a new interest. Clear eyes, calm 
brow, pleasant lines and curves looked back at her. She 
could not recognise the stamp of resolution, the impress 
of fine thoughts, that were engraved upon her face. 


THE VOICE OF HARMONY 309 

“Must have been Hughie Stewart I saw, driving down 
to the Outlet,” her uncle said, winking at his sister as he 
passed the bread at supper. “He’s off to call on those 
pretty girls from West Lake, I suppose,” and he smiled 
slyly at the sudden access of colour in his niece’s face. 

If Hugh had gone to the Outlet, the cove was free. 
This was Miriam’s thought. The cove was always her 
haven. And once the supper things were cleared away 
she slipped on her scarlet jacket and made her way quietly 
down the carriage-drive and on by the road to the shore. 
The sky was pale with sunset’s after-glow. The long 
stretch of white sand was quite deserted. The winds were 
all asleep. The light waves lisped peace. 

She clasped her hands behind, and with face turned to 
the lake, wide and free in the evening light, she steeped 
her soul in the nameless glory of water and air and sky. 
She had meant to feast here, all alone, on the precious 
secret, but now she could not bear to unlock that far cor- 
ner of her heart where it was guarded, but hid it even 
from herself, content to breathe and feel the loveliness 
about her. 

And so she did not hear him coming, with quick im- 
petuous strides, his footsteps silent on the smooth sand. 
She started impulsively as his warm fingers closed around 
her hands, loosely clasped behind. She drew them swiftly 
away. Hugh walked past and beyond her, far out on 
that point of land round whose rocky base wild geese 
honk and flutter, and sea-gulls swoop, screaming and 
circling in white fury. 

She followed at her own quiet pace and found a nook 
in the shelter of the cove. Sitting there she watched him 
standing out alone, silhouetted against the evening sky. 
Her heart was in mad tumult. She knew he would come 
back to her as surely as those wild birds to their sandy 
shelter. But what he would say or what she would 


3 io MIRIAM OF QUEEN’S 

answer her mind could not frame. Only she knew that 
she wanted him. Her heart said, “Oh, Hugh, come. I 
need you !” 

And suddenly he turned and walked straight towards 
her. A white cloud of sea-gulls lifted as he passed. 

He stood in front of her as she sat in the hollow, and 
looked down, contritely. 

“Will you forgive me, Miriam?” 

“For what, Hugh?” She was playing with the sand, 
sifting it through her fingers.” 

“For the advantage I took of you, this morning by 
the brook.” His words came with difficulty, but he still 
looked at her. 

Miriam’s head drooped, and she dug away at the sand 
as though she had to make a tunnel to New Zealand. It 
was growing dusk. The evening star shone out in the 
dark blue sky. 

“You shouldn’t have done it,” she said. 

He dropped down swiftly beside her. She would not 
turn her head, although she felt him there, so near her. 

“But if a man couldn’t help himself,” he ventured. It 
was plain by the flush of his face and the quick light of 
his eyes, that the inclination was strong on him again. 
Miriam detected it in the tremor of his voice. She an- 
swered hurriedly, as though to ward him off — “Why, 
then, I suppose he would have to be forgiven.” 

The sheltering rock betrays no secrets. The wide beach 
is forsaken. Evening drops her sable curtains. The stars 
shine faintly as though with averted gaze. Far out on the 
bosom of the lake sounds the clear, weird call of the loon, 
strangely softened but jubilant. Love has spoken and all 
Nature is drowsy with harmony. 


THE END 

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